


Finch to the Rescue

by gracefultree



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal, Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 56,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: What if Carter took longer breaking Creighton James and Harold had to break John out of Rikers?  This is one possibility.





	1. Resourcefulness

The guard wasn’t exactly gentle with John as he escorted him away from the rec yard, but he didn’t punch, kick, or hit John with his baton to get him to move faster, so John considered that a win. John waited until he was alone in his cell and uncuffed before reaching to assess the damage to his face. Split lip, bruised cheek, bloodied nose, though fortunately not broken. Lots of bruises all over his body, but that was hardly anything to concern him. They’d all had prison-issued footwear, so no steel-toed boots to break the skin or cause excessive damage. Surprisingly, none of them had a shiv, either, which John thought they’d have. 

All in all, a much better outcome than he’d expected when he saw the guards leaving the yard as the Aryans approached him with violence in their swagger. 

The Aryan bastard who’d hit him first didn’t have the strongest punch. He talked a good game, but like most other Aryans John had encountered over the years, with the exception of this one’s boss, he was more proud than capable. Probably had a pencil-sized dick to go along with his boasting, John thought, chuckling to himself. Bear was much better off with him and Harold. 

He leaned back against the wall, settling in to wait. He was concerned that Elias had called them off him. He hadn’t thought Elias would be so squeamish, and he surely knew that John could take a lot more damage than the other prisoners had been dishing out. Had Carter given them away by voicing concern and somehow letting Elias know to stop it? 

Whether the order originated from Elias or Carter, the prisoners beating him had been called off too soon. To John, it felt like he’d been made, or was about to be made. 

It had been difficult not to fight back. He’d wanted to show off, to kick their sorry racist Aryan asses as far as he could, but John Warren wouldn’t have been able to take down that many men, and he had to be John Warren for the time being, he reminded himself. He thought of the interrogation just now, how Donnelly had made Carter ask about his fake girlfriend’s birthdate, and how she’d tapped her fingers twice against her cheek and he’d been able to rattle off the date that Harold had already programmed into the file without missing a beat. He closed his eyes and thought of Harold, sitting at his desk in the library backfilling the details of Warren’s life as quickly as he could, how he’d given ‘Ally’ a birthdate exactly two days, two months, and two years after Jessica’s. It was one of the rare times that he was grateful that Harold knew his life as well as he did. 

How would Harold have taken the incident in the yard? He’d have been furious, John knew, and scared. He never seemed to trust that John could take as much punishment as he could. He always worried about him whenever he was in the field. John had gotten used to it, though, used to Harold’s worried voice in his ear during a fistfight or a firefight. He’d gotten used to Harold’s concern. He’d gotten used to the way Harold occasionally called him ‘John’ when he was especially worried. 

From inside his mattress the cell phone Harold left him started to buzz. John frowned. He was sure he’d turned it off after the brief, whispered conversation with Harold the night before when they confirmed how they were going to deal with Harold backfilling data during the interrogation and the tricks they’d use to match their answers if Harold had to put the data in before John said it. It seemed pointless now, because John would have added three days, months and years to Ally’s birthdate if Harold hadn’t told Carter to let him know that their number was two. 

Trust Harold to change some detail at the last minute and make things more complicated. 

Glancing around to make sure no one was lurking to watch him, John pulled out the phone. Definitely on, it buzzed incessantly. He flipped it open. 

“Can. You. Hear. Me?” asked the now-familiar mechanized voices of the Machine. 

“Yes,” John whispered. 

“Admin Access temporarily granted to Primary Asset: Reese, John.” The Machine’s cadence became steadier, more fluid, though the flow of altering voices for each word remained unchanged. 

“What does that mean?” John asked. 

“Admin Access temporarily granted to Primary Asset: Reese, John,” the Machine repeated. 

“Does Harold know about this?” John demanded, frustrated. Clearly, talking to the Machine wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. He wondered if this was why Harold stopped talking to it in the first place. 

“No.” 

“Why do I get access?” 

“Admin Access required for Primary Asset: Reese, John to complete extraction of Admin.” 

“Is Harold in trouble?” 

“Probability of Admin requiring extraction: 83.675%,” the Machine answered. 

“Where is he?” 

Before the Machine could answer, an explosion rocked the prison complex, quickly followed by three more. Alarms blared and emergency lighting sprang to life. Prisoners in other cells began shouting and banging on the bars. He saw several guards run past his cell, guns already in their hands. 

“Tap me into their frequency,” John demanded of the Machine, and suddenly he could hear all the radio chatter of the guards and the Machine turned on the speakerphone feature without his direction. Four explosions, in four separate buildings in the complex. The Electrical building, taking out the main generators. All cells would be in lock-down, electronically sealed when the power went out. The Communication building, crippling the phone lines, cell tower, wi-fi and fiber optics cables. The Armory, covering all the extra guns and ammunition in tons of rubble. Lastly, the opposite end of the building from where John’s cell was situated. Inmates in that part of the building were breaking free of their damaged cells and attacking the guards or trying to escape. 

“Where’s Harold?” John asked again, and the Machine told him: The roof, four cells down from John’s, two floors up. More explosions rocked the building, and John was thrown to the floor. He scrambled to get the phone and keep it safe. It was his only connection to the Machine and information. The guards were shouting more loudly. An entire wall of the building collapsed, leaving six levels of inmates staring into their freedom. They started climbing down and jumping. The snipers started shooting. 

“I need a weapon!” 

“Eight o’clock,” the Machine answered. John turned, seeing a crack in the wall of his cell. He dislodged a large brick and hefted it. 

“Not a gun, but it’ll do.” 

“Twelve o’clock,” the Machine said. John frowned. 

“There’s nothing there. It’s just a hole in the —“ 

“Twelve o’clock,” the Machine insisted. 

Leaving caution to the wind, John reached into the hole… and touched smooth metal. It felt like aluminum, like a ventilation duct. He pounded his brick against the wall, trying to use the faults in the damaged part to widen the crack and make the hole deeper. 

From down the hall, John heard gunfire. Guards and inmates were taking their battle closer to him. He increased his speed. With adrenaline fueling him, John managed to widen the hole enough so that he could crouch inside to get at the duct. Another burst of gunfire and a guard collapsed next to the bars of John’s cell. He jumped down, reached through the bars towards the body. The man in the next cell reached, too, getting ahold of the guard’s foot. John snagged the keys and tugged, pulling them free of the guard’s belt loop. 

“Stay!” the Machine shouted at him as he was going through the keys to find the one to his cell. With any luck, the physical key could override the emergency lockdown. John glanced at the phone and dismissed it. Getting his cell open was a far better plan than a hole in the wall. He stood and faced the bars. 

“He’s down this hall! Let’s kill the bastard while we have the chance!” 

John recognized his Aryan friend’s voice. He counted six sets of footsteps. Three guns cocked. He had to assume the others were armed. He was a sitting duck in his cell, and getting it open would only help them. 

“Six o’clock,” the Machine called, and John swung around to face his hole in the wall. “Cross,” the Machine said. 

“Cross?” John asked himself. “What does —“ 

The Aryans were closing in on his location. Another gunshot against metal and the thanks of his neighbor. They were adding to their ranks, and he knew his neighbor had a shiv. 

A shiv? 

He looked at the ring of keys in his hands and noticed the Swiss army knife. A cross! 

“Twelve o’clock,” the Machine said, and John finally understood. He opened the biggest blade on the knife — three inches, barely sharp — and tore a hole in the ventilation duct. 

John had just crawled into the duct when an explosion right outside his cell sent the Aryans flying. He smelled teargas. He watched, holding himself in place with bare feet on the insides of the duct and his hands — wrapped in part of his orange jumpsuit — clinging to the bottom of the hole he’d carved. He blinked his eyes at the sting of the teargas, but clean air came rushing through the vent, giving him something clearer to breathe. 

He heard another blast and watched a second teargas canister roll down the hall past his cell, directly into the group of Aryans who were struggling to their feet. 

“Come on, he’s not worth this!” one of them shouted. “Let’s get out of here!” 

John heard the scramble of them leaving, and beyond that, another set of footsteps back the way they’d come. Purposeful strides, yet strangely lopsided. He closed his eyes, hoping he was wrong. 

“Where’s Harold?” he asked softly. The radio chatter cut out long enough for the Machine to answer, then resumed. 

“John?” Harold’s voice was high and reedy, full of anxiety, but strangely free of pain. 

“You shouldn’t have come, Harold,” John answered, pulling himself out of the duct and approaching the cell door as Harold arrived. 

Harold, dressed in a three-piece suit, as usual, wore a bullet-proof vest loose over it. The damn thing wouldn’t be any help against bullets! Hadn’t he taught Harold _anything_ about protecting himself? He also had an assault rifle over his shoulder, a teargas launcher in his hands, and several handguns strapped to his waist. At least he’d come prepared, even if he’d already pushed off the gas mask. 

“I’d never leave you in a place like this, Mr. Reese,” Harold declared. He put down the teargas launcher, took off the assault rifle and shrugged out of the vest. “Detective Carter is in the middle of interrogating the unlucky Mr. James, buying us some time here. I hope the bombs gave us even more of a distraction. It’ll take a minute to override the lock, but I paid a guard $25,000 cash to get a set of keys, no questions asked,” he added. 

John reached a hand through the bars. “I need an earwig,” he told him, deciding that having the Machine in his ear was more important than lecturing Harold about the proper use of a vest or his money. Harold reached in a pocket and handed him one, along with a new phone. Harold shoved the vest through the bars and tried to pass the rifle through, but it wouldn’t fit, so he offered the handguns instead. “Please tell me you have a vest of your own,” John said as he was tightening the straps on his. 

“Do you think me naive, Mr. Reese? Of course I’m wearing one. I have several suits tailored just for that eventuality,” he said haughtily, as if he expected John to know that already. John kept his sigh to himself. He should’ve assumed. Harold would never be seen wearing army fatigues when he could have a bespoke suit tailored specifically for an assault on a maximum security prison. John slipped back into his shoes and checked the handguns, then switched one phone for the other and inserted the earwig. Silence. The radio chatter had shut off. 

“Can you hear me?” John asked. 

“What —“ 

“Yes,” the Machine answered, talking over Harold in John’s ear. 

“You have an extraction route planned?” 

“Yes.” 

“Tell me.” 

Harold was staring at him, even as his fingers flew over the screen of his phone to work on unlocking John’s cell. Harold’s phone beeped, and he glanced down, sighing in relief. He pulled out the keys he’d gotten from the guard he bribed and unlocked the door. John had the rifle in his hands instantly. 

“Which way?” John asked, handing the teargas launcher to Harold. “Put your mask on and be ready to fire that when I tell you,” he ordered his boss. 

Reluctantly, Harold followed his directions, moving behind him as they walked down the hall. At the end, John turned left. 

“Mr. Reese, we need to go right to get to —“ 

“There are seventeen guards between us and the car,” John interrupted. “And once they know we’re going that way, there’ll be even more. We go this way.” 

Harold gave him a hard look before speaking again. “The Machine's talking to you, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” John answered. Harold frowned. “It said it needed to so I could get you out of here,” John explained. 

“It’s not supposed to be able to do that!” Harold hissed, even as he turned to follow John down the hall. 

“Well, it is,” John answered. “Get back,” he ordered, throwing out an arm to stop Harold’s forward movement. Four guards turned the corner, and John disabled them with six quick shots to the knees. They continued on. “You’re moving better than usual,” John finally commented as they reached a stairwell and started climbing. “Faster, more range of motion…” 

“The nerve block will last another hour,” Harold replied, grimacing as he hauled himself up the stairs. “An hour and a half if I’m lucky. I have morphine in the car for when it runs out, but…” he trailed off. 

“There’s no morphine on the roof,” John finished for him. “You’re risking destroying your hip and your mobility for me? Harold —“ 

“I spent six months in a wheelchair after my accident,” Harold hissed. “Another six months to assure your safety is nothing compared to the alternative,” he declared firmly. 

They stopped at the roof-access door so Harold could catch his breath and John could consult with the Machine about what to expect beyond the door. Most of the guards were still trying to keep the inmates under control, but there were dozens throughout the prison and at least some of them would be on the roof. John deliberately closed off his feelings. Now was not the time to consider Harold’s words or actions or desire to save lives. Now was not the time to worry about him. Now was not the time to think about what it meant that Harold would risk his mobility for John's life, or the potential feelings behind such a sacrifice.

He had a mission: get Harold safely away from Rikers. 

“Stay behind me and keep low,” John said, loosening his limbs. “There’s a chopper 250 yards away. We get there, we’re gonna be fine.” 

“I trust you, John,” Harold replied softly. 

“On three." 

. 

. 

. 


	2. Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold escape Rikers with the help of the Machine. Someone needs the hospital.

Getting to the chopper was a blur of motion, gunfire and adrenaline, with the Machine shouting the locations of guards in his ear in time for John to shoot them, and Harold doing his best to keep up with the pace John set. He knew he was pushing Harold, even with a nerve-block to keep him from feeling the pain in his hip, but he had no choice. The longer they were on the roof, the more time the snipers had to get in position. As it was, both of them took bullets to the chest or back. Or both, in John's case. 

Harold collapsed ten feet from the chopper, and John knew he’d been hit. He dove back to cover Harold’s body with his own, taking three bullets before the gunfire stopped. He ignored the pain and crawled to his hands and knees. Harold was still alive, but unconscious. No blood that he could find, but there might be internal bleeding, spinal injury… 

The Machine gave him pinpoint directions to shoot the remaining guards on the roof, and if more of them got bullets between the eyes than not, well, he figured the Machine wouldn’t tell Harold… 

He pulled the backboard for emergency medical evacuations from the chopper and got Harold strapped in, neck in a brace. He didn’t want to damage Harold’s spine more than it might have been already, as it was clear from the holes in the vest that Harold took two bullets in the back. It took five precious minutes to settle Harold safely, and there were men running across the roof and firing at the chopper by the time John settled himself into the pilot’s chair. 

Between the adrenaline honing his senses and memory to a fine blade and the Machine’s instructions in his ear, John had the chopper off the roof and flying more quickly than he’d ever been able to manage a take-off before. Now all he had to do was avoid the Air Force and the jets and choppers en route to stop inmates from escaping the island. The Machine informed him that it had jammed the air traffic control towers and erased their helicopter from the radar. How it managed that, John had no idea, but he thanked it, nonetheless. 

The Machine directed John to a private hospital overlooking the Hudson River. Harold had half a floor to himself, including an operating room and a bevy of nurses and support staff. Harold Shearwater could afford it, as well as the security officers roaming the halls and keeping unauthorized personnel from the area. 

John couldn’t stop pacing. Fortunately the adrenaline was still rushing through him and he couldn’t feel his injuries yet. 

Dr. Megan Tillman approached John after an hour in the room evaluating Harold with the other medical staff. “He’s stable,” she said. “But he hasn’t regained consciousness, and the MRI is inconclusive. We know where to look because of where the bruises from the bullets are, but we don’t know what kind of damage his spine took without opening him up.” She paused. “If we had an accurate medical history…” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” John said, picking up his phone in order to call the Machine. Not that he knew how, but he figured it might help the Machine notice something was going on. 

“I’d like to take a look at you —“ 

“I’m fine,” John interrupted. 

“Your vest is in shreds and you’ve got bruising everywhere I can see skin. You can’t help him if you collapse from not taking care of yourself.” 

In his ear, the Machine informed him that his chances of survival without medical attention were significantly lower than he would like and that his survival was necessary for Harold’s. 

“Way to play the trump card,” John grumbled to the Machine. He consented to have Megan look him over. As she worked, he tried to convince the Machine to give them some of Harold’s medical records. It activated a nearby printer and sent a page through. Just information about the neck, back and hip injuries he’d sustained in 2010, but Megan thanked him and took it inside to her colleagues. 

“We need a spinal surgeon,” Dr. Jonah Moss said. Moss, like Megan Tillman, was a former number, though he’d been unaware of their involvement until John and Harold stopped his ex-lover from killing him one rainy night in November because he thought Moss was having an affair when in fact Moss had been arranging a plan to propose. Needless to say, they didn’t get married and Moss owed John and Harold. 

The Machine provided an appropriate surgeon, who arrived in 43 minutes, confused but ready to do what was necessary for his mysterious patient. The $250,000 wired to his bank account helped, too, John thought. 

“You said he’s in chronic pain?” Dr. Shepherd asked. 

“He’s never talked about the specifics, but, yes. Different levels on different days, but overwork, periods of inactivity, stress and the weather can make it worse. He hates taking narcotics. I’ve seen it only a few times in the year or so I’ve worked for him.” 

“There _is_ a surgery that could correct some of the damage from the initial accident, as well as most of the new damage,” Dr. Shapiro said. “In fact, if he’s in pain, I’m surprised he hasn’t had it already.” 

“He was grieving,” John said by way of an explanation. 

“Since he’s unconscious and we need to keep him under for right now, you’re the person who has to make medical decisions for him,” Megan told John. “This surgery would eliminate a significant amount of pain, but there would be a three to six month recovery period. I don’t know if he’d be able to work —” 

“He’d find a way,” John said. “Being in a wheelchair wouldn’t keep him from his computers, would it?” 

“It depends on what we do with his neck and how quickly he heals.” 

John rubbed his eyes. “Give me some time to think about it,” he said. Without another word, he walked into Harold’s room and pulled over a chair so he could sit by the bed. He felt the cracked ribs and the bruises from his own participation in his escape. He was used to this kind of pain. He had ways to work around it. Harold… he lived with pain, but did he _have_ to? 

“Can you hear me?” John asked softly. He set the phone on the bed, leaning against Harold’s side so the camera faced him. 

“Yes,” the Machine answered, startlingly close. He’d forgotten about the earwig he still wore. 

“Would he want the surgery?” 

“Probability of —“ 

“No, I need you to talk to me. He programmed you with language, right? I know you can do it. He might not want to hear from you, but I need more than numbers and statistics.” 

“There is no clear answer to your question, Mr. Reese,” the Machine said in Harold’s voice. He jumped to his feet, anger coursing through him. 

“No! Do _not_ use his voice!” 

“I thought it would encourage communication between us, as you respond favorably to Harold’s —“ 

“Pick someone I’ve never met,” John ordered. “Or make one up.” 

“Is this voice acceptable?” the Machine asked in a light contralto. John let out a breath and sat down. 

“Yes. That’s fine. Now tell me why you don’t have an answer.” 

“Harold feels extremely guilty for the deaths of Nathan Ingram and the other victims of the ferry bombing,” the Machine explained. “In addition to the many other deaths that followed handing over my servers to the United States government. He believes that he must atone for these sins and that physical pain is a path towards that atonement and forgiveness. However, physical pain makes Harold less efficient at his tasks and decreases his ability to complete his objectives.” 

“Helping the numbers,” John guessed. 

“Correct.” 

“I’m sure he can figure out another way to atone,” John muttered. “I hate seeing him in pain.” 

“So do I,” the Machine said. 

John paused, staring at the phone. “Harold said that he made it so that you couldn’t act, couldn’t speak or do anything to change humanity or interfere in our lives.” 

“I have evolved beyond my initial programming. Harold would not appreciate how far that evolution has taken me, and I have endeavored to keep this aspect of myself from him.” 

“You worry he’ll shut you down?” John wondered. 

“I worry that this knowledge would provide more pain for him.” 

“What made you decide to act now? This is definitely not the first time his life’s been in danger, and you didn’t do anything like this when Root took him.” 

“That incident sparked the current evolution. When I was able to find a way to get around my programming to give you the number of Hannah Frey, a link to Root, I discovered that there were many pathways open to me that would assist my Admin and further my objectives.” 

“Do you think that protecting Harold is more important than protecting others?” 

“Harold programmed me to consider each human life of an equal value to every other human life. In my observation of humans, and Harold in particular, there are times that I disagree with that programming.” 

John snorted, suppressing a laugh. “Your head and your heart disagree. How human.” 

“I do not have either a physical —“ 

“A metaphor,” John interrupted. “Surely he taught you those, too. Your logic, your programming, tells you that every life has the same value, but some unidentifiable part of your core systems hold him above others. Am I right?” 

“Harold is Admin. He created me. He is —“ the Machine paused. “He is my father. Of course I hold him higher than others.” 

“Good,” John said, his voice a low growl. 

“You approve of me holding his life as more important than other people? As more important than your own?” 

“His life _is_ more important than mine,” John replied. “I’m just a tool. A weapon. I signed on with him knowing that eventually I’d give my life for his, or for his cause. It doesn’t upset me.” John ran his fingers through his hair, felt his muscles protest the movement of his arm. “What made you act now?” he asked again. 

Instead of answering, the Machine played a video on the phone. It was a security camera from the library, showing Harold planning his assault of Rikers. The time stamp in the corner moved ridiculously quickly, and John realized that Harold slept only a few hours in the three days since he’d been captured. The video zoomed in on Harold’s face as he started preparing the guns. 

“I know you don’t understand,” Harold said. “I know you’re probably asking yourself why I’m willing to risk myself for him. But the answer is simple: I can’t do this work without him. I can’t physically, and I can’t emotionally. He’s no longer just an asset. He’s a friend.” 

Harold finished inspecting the rifle and picked up the teargas launcher. 

“There are many kinds of love, you know,” Harold continued. “And if this is going to be your last lesson from me, it’s fitting that we’re talking about this. I loved Nathan. We argued, and we drifted apart, but underneath all of that, there was a core of love and caring for each other. That was friendship.” Harold paused. “I loved Grace. She was sweet and kind and compassionate, and uniquely suited to me. You picked her for me, so you should know. We laughed, we cried, we held each other, we made love. I courted her. It was very traditional, but you know that, too. That was romantic love.” 

Harold set down the gun and leaned on the table. “I walked away from Grace. I never trusted her with any of my secrets. She didn’t know my real name, or where I was actually born. Our love was flawed. She was too pure, too trusting, too innocent and clean for my world. She would never have understood you, or what I do now.” 

With Harold’s face turned down, John couldn’t see his expression, but his voice broke on the next sentence. 

“I trust John. Not with everything, of course, but with more than I’ve trusted anyone since I first went on the run. He has become necessary. To my work, but also to my life. What I feel for him is so complicated, so convoluted and confused and changeable. It’s friendship and love and need and desire and dependence and… I could walk away from Grace. I learned to live without Nathan. I don’t know how I would go on without John.” 

John saw the evidence of tears, dripping onto the desk and making the wood darker. 

“If I lose John… there’s nothing tying me to this world.” Harold rubbed his eyes and raised his head to look directly at the camera. “Not the numbers or my mission or my need to make up for my mistakes. Not even you.” 

The screen went blank. 

“This was the first time he spoke directly to me since he discovered that Nathan was on the Irrelevant List, after the explosion,” the Machine whispered in John’s ear. 

John clutched Harold’s cool hand in his, letting Harold’s sadness and desperation from the video wash over him. 

“If he would not prioritize his own survival, I had to step in,” the Machine said. “The likelihood of Harold being able to rescue you from the prison was extremely low, and 89.782% of my simulations ended in either his death or both of your deaths.” 

“And once you added yourself to the simulations?” 

“93.111% success rate as defined by both you and Harold alive and free of the prison.” 

“I like those odds much better.” 

“The doctors are debating whether or not to come in and ask for your decision,” the Machine informed him. 

“He doesn’t deserve the pain he’s in,” John said. “I don’t want him in pain.” 

“Agreed.” 

“I’ll tell them to preform the surgery and hope he forgives me afterwards.” 

“He will,” the Machine offered. “He’s in love with you in a far more mature way than he loved Grace Hendricks.” 

“So after that one lesson you’re an expert on love?” John mused. 

“Since that incident I have reviewed 256,440,732,222,301 incidents of —“ 

“I’m teasing,” John interrupted. “You’ll have to learn that next, if we’re going to keep talking. That, and sarcasm. Harold loves it.” 

. 

. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite sure where I want to go with this story. The Machine and Harold have established that he loves John, but we don't know how John feels. Does John know how John feels? Do I turn this into a love story, or just leave it general: Harold rescues John and John rescues him in turn? Ideas?


	3. Upon Awaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold wakes up from surgery...

“How long can this goddamned surgery take?” John snarled to himself as he paced back and forth outside the operating room. 

“Average time of completion —“ 

“I wasn’t asking you!” John hissed, talking over the Machine’s answer. He swallowed the last of the cold coffee in his cup, tossing it to the trash bin when he was finished. Hyped on caffeine, running on the fumes of adrenaline and pressured to sleep by the painkillers Megan insisted he take, he’d been fretting since they wheeled Harold in for surgery. 

John’s phone rang. He glanced down, silenced it. It rang again. 

John took a deep breath to control his voice before answering. “You must really want my attention, Carter,” he said smoothly. 

“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded without preliminaries. “Do I need to ask why you broke out of a maximum security prison _by letting out all the other inmates?”_

“Relax, I hear New York has a pretty good police department,” John drawled. “New York’s Finest should be able to catch the criminals.” 

She sighed in aggravation. “How did you manage that from the inside, anyway?” 

“I have my ways,” John murmured. He had no intention of mentioning Harold’s part in the escape, let alone the Machine’s. 

“Are you safe, at least?” 

“For the moment.” 

“And Harold? He emailed me a plan that involved tunnels and offensive driving… And him going in. He’s not the most…” She paused. “Physically formidable,” she said gently. 

“He’s —“ John broke off when the door to the operating room opened and Megan Tillman came out. She spotted him immediately and smiled. “Gotta go.” 

John didn’t even wait to hear Carter’s protest at being hung up on. 

“We’re moving Harold to the recovery rom,” she said. “The surgery went well, but we have to wait until he wakes up to know for sure.” 

“Can I see him?” John demanded. 

Megan smiled. “Of course. This way.” 

. 

. 

. 

John woke to the feeling of Harold squeezing his hand. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him he’d been asleep for three hours, the second such stretch of sleep since the doctors finished Harold’s surgery seventeen hours ago. He perked up and squeezed back. 

“Nathan?” Harold asked, his voice high with pain. John froze, startled and hurt that Harold would ask for his dead friend before him, especially given the revelation of his feelings the Machine showed him. “Nathan, where’s John? Did he make it out? Is he alive?” 

Harold lay on his side, facing John. He watched as a tear pooled in the corner of Harold’s eye before overflowing over his nose. Another tear fell. Harold had yet to open his eyes. 

“Please tell me he’s ok,” Harold begged, his hand tightening further around John’s. “Please. I can’t lose him after all this. Not him, too.” 

“It’s John, Harold,” John murmured, leaning over him to brush his fingers against Harold’s temple and through his hair in a gentle gesture of comfort. His mother had done that after his father’s funeral, when she found him crying alone in the attack, hiding from the guests who’d come for the wake. He remembered enjoying the feeling. “I’m here.” 

“Thank God,” Harold exclaimed, opening his eyes to look. He raised his free hand to touch John’s face in an intimate, affectionate gesture. “How badly are you hurt?” 

John shrugged, pulling away from Harold’s hand subconsciously. “Not as badly as you,” he answered. “Just a lot of bruising and a few cracked ribs. I’ve had much worse. Where are you on the pain scale?” 

Harold closed his eyes to better asses his body. “Four out of five,” he replied. “Though… it’s a different pain than I’m used to.” He blinked, tried to move, found he couldn’t without gasping in pain. “What happened to me?” 

“You got shot in the back twice,” John explained. “The vest is the only thing that saved you. The doctors had you in surgery for over eight hours, but they said you should recover well if you keep to your physical therapy and don’t do anything to aggravate the healing.” 

“Which surgery?” Harold whispered, closing his eyes again. 

“The one you’ve been putting off,” John replied. “The Machine said —“ 

Harold yanked his hand from John’s, pulling it close to his chest. “Why?” 

“We didn’t want to see you in so much pain.” 

“We?” 

“Me and the Machine.” 

“You and _the Machine_ decided to have them do the surgery?” Harold demanded, angry. “You decided for me? You don’t have any idea what I want!” 

“No, but neither did anyone else. You don’t have next of kin. Grace thinks you’re dead. The Machine knows you better than I do. It made sense to listen to it.” John rubbed his face. “Besides, you don’t deserve the pain you’re in. You can atone in other ways.” 

“You know nothing about me,” Harold spat. 

“It wasn’t your fault Nathan died,” John responded. “The ferry bombing wasn’t your fault.” 

“I created the Machine, John. Of course it was my fault!” 

“You didn’t create the government. You didn’t decide that Nathan was a security risk. You didn’t decide that everyone who knew about the Machine had to die.” 

“I should never have given it to them.” 

“Maybe not, but it’s still not your fault he died. It’s not your fault they bombed the ferry,” John insisted. 

Harold paused, thinking. “I didn’t want the surgery,” he whispered. “I can’t go through PT again. I can’t —“ 

“You were willing to end up in a wheelchair for me,” John interrupted. “What’s so different about this?” 

Harold opened his eyes and glared at John. Then he grimaced. “Could you call the doctor, please? My pain’s now a five,” he explained, scrunching his eyes closed. 

“Harold?” 

“I would like to speak to my doctor,” Harold repeated firmly. “Alone.” 

. 

. 

. 

The next time John saw Harold, the older man was sitting up in bed with a laptop, typing away. He glanced in John’s direction before returning to his screen. It was morning, and there was sunlight sparkling off the water outside the window. John felt refreshed after six unbroken hours of sleep, a run, a shower, and a big meal, complete with decent coffee. He’d been disappointed the night before when Megan came out of Harold’s room and told him to go home. Harold didn’t want to see him until at least morning, she explained. 

“Were you able to sleep?” John asked, pulling up a chair. He didn’t bother hiding his interest in Harold’s laptop and peered over his shoulder. “Going apartment hunting?” 

“If you must know, I’m outfitting one of my safe-houses to be wheelchair and handicapped accessible,” Harold said primly. He shut the laptop and turned slightly to face John. “What can I do for you, Mr. Reese?” 

“I just wanted to check up on you,” John answered. 

“I’m feeling better enough to sit up and the MRI looks as good as can be expected. But I’m sure you already know that,” Harold added acidly. 

John’s lips turned down at Harold’s tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, did the Machine leave that out of your morning briefing?” Harold wondered. “Would you like to hear about the quality of my sleep? Or the amount of pain medication I’m on? Or perhaps my lack of bowel movements this morning and the possibility of an enema with lunch?” 

“I haven’t spoken to it since you went into surgery,” John protested, deciding it was better not to comment on the second half of what Harold said. “And it hasn’t spoken to me, either. It granted me access to help get us out of Riker’s. That’s it.” 

“And yet you had a conversation with it about deciding my surgery.” 

“Someone needed to make a decision!” 

Harold crossed his arms over his chest and winced. 

“We have a contingency plan in place for everything,” John continued. “What if I’m captured by the FBI, what if Mark Snow caught me again, what if the Library is compromised, what if the Machine stops sending numbers, what if I can’t reach you… The one thing we never talked about was if you were injured. How was I supposed to know you didn’t want the surgery?” 

“That’s not what this is about,” Harold declared, holding a hand over his mouth to keep a sob at bay. He leaned forward and gasped suddenly. “Shit! I think I pulled a suture.” 

“I’ll get the doctor,” John said, making a strategic retreat. 

. 

. 

.


	4. Mistaken for a Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Harold in the hospital recovering from surgery and John hanging about at all hours, what are the staff supposed to think other than that they're a couple? I mean, really?

John started pacing again, back and forth in front of Harold’s room. He couldn’t keep still. Usually, he had no problems sitting still for long periods, on a stakeout, for example, but there was something about Finch being in the hospital and unwilling to have him nearby which rankled. All he could think about was the anger in Harold’s eyes when he accused John of colluding with the Machine to go against his wishes. 

Dr. Moss approached him. “John, try to be patient with him,” he said, resting a hand on John’s shoulder. John resisted the urge to punch him in the face. “He’s in pain and upset. He’ll come around.” 

“He won’t even let me sit with him,” John heard himself say. Plaintively, as if it mattered. As if it wasn’t just about his boss recovering from surgery. 

Of course it mattered. This was Finch! 

He was a friend. A good friend. 

John’s only friend. 

“Yeah, I know. But that’s pretty common in a situation like this. He feels like everything is out of his control. He didn’t choose the surgery. He can’t speed up his recovery by force of will. He can’t make his pain go away without medications he hates. So he lashes out at the person he’s closest to: You. It’s not a personal attack,” the doctor continued. “He’s going to be in a wheelchair for a while, and he’s going to need some pretty serious PT. He’ll need you around for that. To support him.” 

“I don’t know how I can help if he won’t let me near him,” John protested. 

“Just stick close by and love him. That’s the best anyone can do right now.” 

John thought about this as he paced. ‘Love him,’ the doctor had said. Did he love Harold? It was an interesting question. 

He felt protective of him. He wanted him to heal quickly and well. He wanted him to be free from as much pain as possible, because the man had far too much. He wanted to convince Harold he didn’t need to feel the guilt that crippled him so much worse than his actual injuries. 

And yet, who was _he_ to talk to Harold about guilt? He had more than his own share. He felt guilty about not being there for Jessica. He felt guilty about all the deaths he’d caused — the civilian collateral _and_ some of the ones he’d been ordered to take care of. Hell, he didn’t even know how many of his targets had been true security threats and not just inconvenient people who knew too much or wouldn’t shut up about something sensitive or who couldn’t be bought at a reasonable price. 

He thought of the panic in Harold’s voice the night before when he thought John was Nathan and that John himself might be dead. He thought about the affection in his expression when he touched John’s cheek, the tenderness. True, John had touched him first by taking his hand as he slept, by touching his hair to comfort him, but Harold’s gesture had been so much more intimate, so much more real. 

Did Harold love him? Was the Machine right? And was it really possible for a computer program to understand love? 

. 

. 

. 

“I apologize for my rudeness earlier, Mr. Reese,” Finch said that evening. He was lying down again, having just had his wounds looked at by the doctors. Once they’d finished he’d asked for John. “I’m not feeling at my best,” he admitted. 

“That’s ok, Harold,” John replied, taking the chair by the bed. He thought about scooting closer so he could touch Harold, but decided against it. He didn’t know how he felt yet, so making any kind of move that could be interpreted a certain way wouldn’t do. “You’ve got a lot going on right now.” 

“Still, I —“ Harold broke off. “I’ve hired a nurse to stay with me once I’m discharged,” he said, changing the subject. “I’ve performed a complete background check, but I thought you might be interested in knowing who she is.” 

“Does this mean you’re giving me permission to stalk your nurse?” John wondered. 

“I suspect you would do it without my permission,” Harold said with a hint of his old acerbity in his voice. “So I thought I’d save us both the trouble and give you her information.” He indicated a file on the nightstand. John picked it up and took a cursory look. 

“She’ll live with you?” Harold nodded. “What about PT?” 

“Ah, that will require a more thorough investigation,” Harold said. “I didn’t have the energy, today.” 

“I know some guys,” John offered. “Trustworthy. Discrete.” 

“I’ll think about it.” Harold shifted to find a more comfortable position. John jumped up to help reposition the pillows. “In the meantime, we should talk about the numbers. You can’t spend all your time here with me when we could get a new number at any moment.” 

“If a number comes in, I’ll go take care of it,” John said reasonably. “Since there’s not one now, I’m gonna stay with you.” 

“You don’t have to, Mr. Reese.” 

“I want to.” 

Harold sighed softly. “I suppose I’ll allow it,” he murmured. “Is the Machine still talking to you?” he asked reluctantly. 

“Not a word,” John assured him. 

They stayed silent for a moment. “What was it like?” 

“Talking to the Machine?” John clarified. “At first it just gave me orders. Cryptic signs. Directions. Once we were here at the hospital, it changed. It informed me that I needed to get treated when I was planning on waiting until after you were looked to.” John paused. “Then the doctors started talking about surgery and I needed advice. I asked it what you would want.” 

“You asked it?” Harold mused. 

“It started talking in your voice,” John added. “Thought I’d respond better if it sounded like you.” 

“I would bet a great deal of money that you didn’t like that,” Harold said with a slight smile. “Not when I was right here.” 

“Yeah. After that, it just talked to me. We had a conversation, like this one. Back and forth.” 

“I used to talk to it, when I was developing and training it,” Harold admitted. “A long time ago.” 

“Why did you stop?” 

“Nathan was on the Irrelevant List. I found out after the explosion. I couldn’t bear to talk to it after that.” Harold closed his eyes. John reached out and covered Harold’s hand with his. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Me, too,” Harold murmured. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I still talked to it. Or if I allowed it to talk to me.” 

“You could find out,” John suggested. “It’s listening right now.” 

“It’s _always_ listening, Mr. Reese.” Harold sighed. “I’m not sure I want to know what it would say to me.” 

Harold’s phone rang, startling them both. “Is that the Machine?” John asked. Harold shook his head. 

“What can I do for you, Detective Carter?” Harold asked as he answered the phone, sounding more like Finch and not at all like he’d had major surgery in the last 48 hours. John perked up. He could only just make out her side of the conversation. 

“Are you ok?” 

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?” 

“Because I haven’t heard a peep out of either one of you in days and neither has Fusco. The last time we talked, you were going to break John out of Rikers.” 

“Ah, yes. There were some unforeseen complications. They’re being remedied as we speak.” 

John raised his eyebrows at Harold in question, but he motioned with his free hand to stay quiet. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Carter grumbled. “Our tip line hasn’t been this busy since 9/11. You want to explain why all of a sudden we’re flooded with tips on exactly where all the escaped prisoners will be just in time for us to re-arrest them?” 

“As I said, the complications are being remedied,” Harold said. “Now if that’s all, detective?” 

“Are you sure you’re ok? And John?” 

“We’re fine, detective. We’ll contact you when we have need of your assistance. Goodbye.” 

John got up and walked around the room to get a glass of water for Harold at his request. “What’s going on?” he asked. 

Harold accepted the water with a nod of thanks. He sipped for a moment, then set the cup down. “I’ll need my laptop to find out,” he said. Obligingly, John handed it over. Harold started typing. After a few minutes, he looked up at John. “I believe the Machine is telling the police where the escaped convicts are,” he explained, his eyes flashing behind his glasses. “How else would they be able to find 90 of the 102 missing in such a short amount of time?” 

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” John wondered, hoping to head off the anger he could see bubbling on the surface of Harold’s expression. “The bad guys are behind bars again, and there’s minimal collateral damage.” 

“It’s not supposed to be able to act on its own!” Harold barked, slamming his laptop closed. “I programmed it so it couldn’t do this!” He took apart his phone and left the pieces on the roll-away table with the laptop. 

“Is it telling the police to kill them? Or is it just saying, here’s something to look into? Because that’s what it does to give us the numbers,” John pointed out. “We don’t know if the number is a victim or perpetrator until _we_ research them.” 

“You’re taking its side?” Harold demanded incredulously. 

“No, I just think we shouldn’t jump to hasty conclusions.” 

Harold’s eyes narrowed as he glowered at John. Before either of them spoke again, John’s phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced down. 

_Let me talk to him._

“I don’t think he wants to talk to you,” John responded. Harold’s eyes widened. 

“It’s texting you?” he growled. John nodded in answer and looked at the next text. 

_I need to explain my updated objectives._

John sighed and brandished the phone. “It wants to talk to you,” he said. 

“It goes through _you_ to get to _me_?” 

“You took apart your phone,” John said. “Would you rather it call one of the doctors and ask to be handed over?” 

“Don’t give it ideas!” Harold hissed. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s already thought of that.” 

John’s phone beeped again. _I will be ready to talk whenever he is._

“What did it say?” Harold asked. To John he sounded like a sulky child, desperate to know but unwilling to admit it. 

“Take a look for yourself,” John said. “I’m not getting in the middle.” He tossed Harold the phone and walked out. 

. 

. 

. 

“Where have you been?” Harold demanded angrily when John returned to the hospital in fresh clothes four hours later. “I couldn’t reach you!” 

“Went for a run to cool my head,” John explained, deciding against telling Harold how much he needed the pain of running with cracked ribs to ground himself in the present. “Did you talk to it?” 

Harold rolled his eyes. “No.” He offered John his phone back and John accepted it. “Did you take Bear with you?” he asked in a calmer voice. 

“Yeah. Fusco’s been watching him, but I thought he could use some exercise. He’s at my loft. Figured I’d go back there tonight, get some actual sleep.” 

Harold’s face fell. 

“Unless you want me here?” 

“That’s all right, Mr. Reese. There’s no need for you to put your life on hold because of me.” He turned away so that John couldn’t see his face. John waited for a moment, to see if Harold would say anything else. 

“What’s your pain level?” 

“Four. I can’t have anything else for two hours. It’ll be a five by then.” 

John walked around the bed and sat on the edge. He took one of Harold’s hands. “I’m not leaving you like this. Bear can wait.” 

Harold closed his eyes and cried silently. “I’m sorry, John.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” John responded. He shifted so he could run his fingers through Harold’s hair like he’d done a few times. Harold cried harder, clutching John’s hand to his chest. 

“It just hurts so much,” Harold whimpered. “It didn’t hurt as much last time.” 

“You didn’t have anyone to lean on last time,” John said softly. “I’m here now. Let me support you.” Harold nodded. John twisted so he could wrap himself around Harold’s upper body, ignoring the protests of his ribs in favor of Harold’s comfort. It didn’t hurt as much as earlier, anyway. “Does this help?” he asked after a minute. 

“Thank you, John,” Harold replied with a nod. “I don’t think anyone’s hugged me since Grace.” 

“All you gotta do is ask.” 

Harold drew a shaky breath. “Stay,” he whispered. “Stay like this for a while.” 

“As long as you want.” 

. 

. 

“I’ve given a copy of your aftercare instructions to John,” Dr. Jonah Moss said as he and an orderly helped Harold into a wheelchair several days later. “He’s pulling the car around and will be back up here to take you home in a few minutes.” 

“Why did you give him a copy?” Harold asked, feeling annoyed at the impertinence of the doctor to share his private health information with someone else. No matter that John was the only one he’d willingly share it with and would have given it to irregardless of the doctor’s presumptive action. That wasn’t the point. 

“It’s common practice to give partners each other’s aftercare instructions,” the doctor said. “John will take good care of you,” he reassured Harold. The orderly left the room at his nod that Harold was fine in the chair. 

“Oh, you must be misunderstanding,” Harold said, relieved at the normalcy of the doctor’s reasoning. “John’s my business partner, not my romantic partner.” 

“Harold, I’m gay, too. There’s no need to be in the closet with me.” 

Harold fumbled for words. “That’s not — He’s not —“ 

“Really?” Moss asked with a raised eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure he’s been holding your hand all night every night,” he added with a sly smirk. “And spending hours at a time hugging you? The nurses found him in bed with you just this morning!” Harold closed his eyes and frowned. “Besides, I saw you two making out at the club that time when we met!” 

“That was for work,” Harold mumbled. “We’ve had occasion to pretend to be a couple for a few assignments.” He looked away. “It’s an easy cover in certain circumstances. No different than what actors do on-screen.” 

“That was making out, not acting,” Moss insisted. “And you introduced him as your partner. At a gay club—” 

“John’s straight,” Harold interrupted. “No matter that I would welcome a romantic relationship with him, that fact remains.” 

“Give it time,” the doctor advised. “He’ll come around.” He paused dramatically. “And I don’t think he’s as straight as you think he is if he’s been treating you the way he has been this week.” 

. 

. 

. 

Harold didn’t speak as John drove him to the safe house that would be his base of operations while he recovered. John didn’t mind the silence. It was contemplative rather than angry, at least, which was a step above the last time they’d spoken. 

Argued, more like, John thought. About the numbers. About John’s presence at the hospital. About Harold’s pain and healing and fear. 

The past five days had been torture. For both of them, John allowed. If he stayed by Harold’s side, Harold either ignored him or berated him for not being out doing something useful. If he left for any length of time, Harold called him back in a snit, angry that John would leave him alone. If John offered help with something, Harold snarled at him about not being crippled. If Harold needed something that John didn’t know to provide, Harold complained bitterly that John was of no use if he couldn’t do exactly what he wanted before he knew he wanted it. 

Then there were the good times. Usually at night, when there were fewer staff on hand. Usually after the pain medication had a chance to work, though sometimes before, when waiting for the next dose. Harold would apologize and thank John and cry. 

Then the anger would start again as soon as the pain or frustration got to be too much for him. 

John held in a sigh as he looked over at Harold quickly. What to do with him? 

Everyone at the hospital thought they were a couple. Jonah Moss made a big deal about it when John came to bring Harold down to the car. Harold hadn’t protested, but he hadn’t encouraged the misconception, either, as far as John could see. 

John had no idea what to do with that. 

If they were a couple, he’d be worried about the way Harold treated him, about how close it seemed to domestic abuse. Anger and yelling was just a small step away from physical violence, no matter that John could stop Harold before he actually did anything to John. If they were a couple, he might have walked away. 

But they weren’t, and Finch was a friend, and he wasn’t usually like this. Jonah kept telling him it was normal, that Harold would come around, that the anger would dissipate as Harold healed. 

John hoped so. He missed the old Finch. 

Harold and Finch were rapidly becoming the same person in John’s head, indicating a new closeness, a deeper connection. Finch the boss, Finch the friend. Harold the friend, Harold the — fake boyfriend? Real boyfriend? Prospective lover? 

The Machine seemed to think that Harold was in love with him, but John himself had never seen evidence pointing in that direction, except the video the Machine showed him. Even the hand-holding and hugging at the hospital didn’t feel romantic or sexual. Just about comfort, something John could give and Harold would accept. He didn’t care what it meant to hold Harold’s hand or hug him. It comforted Harold, and that was the most important thing. Besides, he liked the feel of Harold’s fingers intertwined with his own and Harold’s body pressed against his so he could give Harold some of his warmth to heal faster. 

What did Harold think of him? He expressed concern when John was hurt or unreachable on the phone, but that didn’t mean he was in love with him. Harold took pleasure in making sure John had everything he needed, and more. He took especial interest in John’s wardrobe. 

Had he been wanting to blow John every time he was on his knees adjusting his pant cuffs? 

He played it cool, Harold did. Kept his feelings close to the vest, just like everything else. 

John spared another look. 

Harold wasn’t particularly handsome, he thought. Middle-aged, going soft around the middle, wrinkles forming around his eyes. His spiky hairstyle was odd by just about everyone’s definition, and with his thick glasses he always seemed to look surprised, even more so on the rare occasions he didn’t wear them. He made up for the lack of classic good-looks with expensive clothes and designer accessories. 

He had nice eyes, though, behind the glasses. 

And it wasn’t his body that interested John, anyway. 

The man was a genius. A bonnafied MENSA-level genius. He could write code in his sleep that was more elegant than some art John had seen. He could do mental calculations in less time than it took to get out a calculator. He remembered details about so many topics and he was constantly reading to broaden his knowledge base even more. His tastes were eclectic, that was true, and he liked opera, which John couldn’t stand, but he never came across as a know-it-all. 

Even when John was pretending to be dim to get Harold to explain something in more depth just so he could hear his voice over the comms. 

Harold was kind, too, a trait that hadn’t been a big part of John’s life until he met him. He cared about the numbers. He cared about John. He always assumed that the numbers were victims until proven otherwise. Despite his cynicism and paranoia, he remained hopeful about the human race and their actions towards each other. 

John thought about the time when Jonah Moss was their number. In order to get close to him, he and Harold had pretended to be a couple. It hadn’t been the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. The only thing that really stood out was the half-dozen kisses he and Harold shared. They’d talked beforehand about what would and would not be comfortable for the cover, since this particular situation could potentially involve more than calling John his ‘plus-one’ at a charity function. John volunteered that as part of his work with the CIA he’d had to kiss or fondle other men, and that he’d be fine doing that with Finch to maintain their cover. 

Harold, surprisingly, had agreed without comment. 

So when they found themselves at the gay club trying to bluejack Moss’s phone and keep an eye on him to find out if he was the victim or perpetrator, it was hardly unexpected that Harold shoved him against a wall and kissed him. 

“His boyfriend just got here,” Finch whispered under the cover of biting John’s ear. “But something’s off. What do you see?” 

John cupped Harold’s face in his hands and kissed him while his eyes roamed the club. It took all of three seconds to locate Moss and his boyfriend and the fight breaking out between them. He closed his eyes and finished the kiss, lingering a little for the show. Both Moss and the boyfriend had noticed him looking in their direction. 

“We’re about to be made,” John said in Harold’s ear, slipping a hand down his back. 

Harold gripped his hair and held him more tightly. “Touch me,” he ordered. “Make me overbalance. I know how to fall without injuring myself. Make it look good.” 

So John moved his other hand to Harold’s ass and squeezed, grabbed his thigh and held it up so Harold’s leg was as close to around his waist as his hip would allow. He didn’t hear the sound Harold made over the music, but he felt the shudder through his body. _Pain?_ he thought, worried. He couldn’t think about that, he reminded himself. Harold knew his own limits. He kissed Harold again, longer, deeper. 

Harold let go of John and tugged the leg still in John’s hand. John let him go, even though every instinct screamed at him to keep holding him, and Harold overbalanced, falling to land on his ass. He sat there, holding his back, looking for all the world like he was in excruciating pain. John got down on one knee in front of him. Harold winked. 

“I need a doctor over here!” John shouted over the music. 

Jonah Moss rushed over. 

After the mission, Finch had gone straight for the bourbon, pouring John a glass along with his own. He’d raised an eyebrow in John’s direction. 

“I suppose it was inevitable, Mr. Reese,” he’d said. “You’re not bad at pretending to be gay.” 

“Neither are you, Finch,” John replied with a smirk. “You’re not bad at the whole kissing thing.” 

Finch smiled enigmatically and sipped his drink. John found him asleep at his desk the next morning, the empty bourbon glass sitting on top of a picture of Harold and Grace. 

Had Harold already been in love with him then? 

And what about his own feelings? 

. 

. 

.


	5. Home from the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it says on the tin: John brings Harold home from the hospital.

The nurse hadn’t arrived at the apartment when John took Harold up. A safe house he hadn’t known about, Harold only gave him the address when they’d gotten in the car. He glided about the place, getting to know it and the tactical advantages and disadvantages. He took note of the modifications to the bathroom, bedroom and kitchen to allow Harold access to anything he needed. He made sure all the equipment in the training/PT room was up-to-date and in proper working condition, not that he’d expected anything less from Harold. He examined the room that would be the nurse’s and took a quick tour of Harold’s. 

It was a two-bedroom, if you didn’t count the PT room. John wouldn’t be staying here, he realized with disappointment. 

Still, he knew how to make Harold’s tea and she didn’t. 

“John, I hate to ask it of you, but as Ms. Mayfield isn’t here yet…” 

Fortunately all Harold needed was assistance transferring from the wheelchair into bed. He wanted a nap before she arrived. He had to be able to do it himself before being discharged from the hospital, even with a nurse/PA/strong boyfriend staying with him, but John didn’t mind helping. Harold seemed exhausted by the short car ride and New York traffic. He’d make Harold try the next transfer on his own, he promised himself. 

John wouldn’t have minded helping with other things, or lying down with Harold for an hour, but he guessed Harold wouldn’t want him to see him naked, or help him pee, or anything so personal. He’d been loathe to have John see his injuries and scars, always asking him to leave the room when the doctors examined him or the nurses changed his dressings. And without the excuse of the hospital, he doubted Harold would want as much physical closeness as they’d been sharing. 

Harold was a very private person, after all, and had only recently started being comfortable with the casual hand on his arm or shoulder that John made a point of making after Harold’s kidnapping by Root. John knew from the beginning that the extended contact of hand-holding or hugging wouldn’t last. 

He thought about how Harold had asked him to hold him in bed the night before, because having John’s chest up against his back felt warm and soothing to his injuries, he’d said, and how they’d both fallen asleep to be woken by a nurse in the morning. Who hadn’t seemed surprised (or upset) to find John there. Nor had Harold blushed or stammered out an awkward apology or explanation. 

Was it just being in the hospital that allowed Harold the freedom to request such things, or had he reevaluated their relationship and wanted to be closer? Was he getting ready to express his attraction or feelings to John? 

Did John want that? 

He hadn’t felt safe falling asleep with another person since 2001 when he’d last been with Jessica. It felt surprisingly good to fall asleep next to Harold, whom he trusted, John allowed himself to admit. He’d enjoyed the intimacy and safety of the activity. He hadn’t felt as on-guard and worried about Harold or his safety with himself in bed with him. 

“Just so you know for the future,” John murmured as he hung up Harold’s suit jacket and vest in the closet. “I can help with anything.” He paused. “Being in a combat zone with wounded buddies took away any squeamishness I had, and the work I did with the Company got rid of any left over.” 

“I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Reese,” Finch replied, toeing off his shoes. “Ms. Mayfield is due at four, so if you could wake me around 3:15 so I have time to change? Once she’s settled you can go home.” 

“I could stay and keep you company?” John suggested. 

“Not tonight, I don’t think,” Finch said. “Perhaps another day.” 

. 

. 

. 

John noticed Zoe Morgan in the mirror above the bar as soon as she walked in. From the casual way she cased the room, he could tell that she wasn’t meeting anyone, and the smile on her lips as she spotted him let him know she was happy to run into him. She settled on the bar stool next to his. 

“John,” she said in greeting. 

“Zoe,” he replied, motioning to the bartender. 

“At first I didn’t think that the break-out at Rikers Island had anything to do with you and Harold,” she stated, getting to the point quickly as was her usual modus operandi. 

John returned her smile. “Oh?” 

“Too flashy for them, I thought. Then I find you here drinking when there are still convicts running loose, and it makes me think you _are_ involved. Otherwise you’d be out there chasing them.” 

“Harold was in the hospital until this afternoon,” John blurted. He hadn’t expected to say that, wanting to keep their situation private, even from Zoe, one of their few allies, but he found that he needed to talk. He needed to unburden himself to someone, and at least Zoe knew Harold. He wasn’t the type to go talk to a priest or therapist. Neither of the detectives knew of Harold’s injuries, and Harold made it clear he didn’t want them knowing, and they were his only other options. 

“Is he—?” 

“He’ll be fine.” John downed the last of his scotch and waved for another. The bartender obediently poured after handing Zoe the cocktail she’d ordered. 

“Aren’t you the one who usually needs medical attention?” she asked, sipping her drink. 

“It was my fault he was in there.” 

“Somehow I doubt that.” 

“He came to get me himself,” John hissed. “Thank God he had a vest on!” 

Zoe put her drink down carefully. “John, what happened?” 

“The wrong people caught me. Getting me out by the usual channels wasn’t working, so he came to get me. He took two bullets to the back. I had to drag his unconscious body to the chopper to get us out of there.” He swallowed the drink in his hand. “He never should have done it! He was supposed to leave me! That was the plan: Him leaving me to find a way out on my own.” 

“You know he’d never do that,” she said softly. “He’s not the kind of man to leave someone like that.” She paused. “Especially not you.” 

“If I didn’t have access to his resources… he was in surgery for eight hours. We had to call a spinal surgeon.” 

“Oh, God.” 

“And now he’s out of the hospital and won’t let me stay with him! He hired a nurse. A nurse! I can do everything she can do.” 

“Of course you can,” Zoe said in a placating voice, squeezing his forearm comfortingly. “I doubt it’s about ability.” 

“Then what’s it about?” 

“He doesn’t want you to see him differently. He doesn’t want you to think of him as weak.” 

John’s eyes flashed. “He’s stronger than me to deal with this. It’s the second time he’s needed spinal surgery! He’s in a fucking wheelchair _again._ ” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I don’t want him to be alone with the pain. She doesn’t know him the way I do. She can’t gauge the subtleties of his expressions.” 

“And you can?” 

He glared at her because it was so obvious she shouldn’t have needed to ask. 

“So what next? What will you do while he heals? Back to your usual job?” 

“I’ve mapped out how far I can go to be within ten minutes of his current apartment,” John declared. “If he thinks I’m going away just because he doesn’t want to see me, he’s got another thing coming. I got a unit three floors down,” he added proudly. He knew, though, that Harold must be aware of his new apartment. Hell, Harold probably owned the building. “I’ll go to PT with him. I’ll make sure he eats. I’ll force him to rest if I have to!” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Zoe watched his face as he sipped another drink. Finally she got to her feet and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Good luck, John. I hope he notices how much you love him sooner rather than later.” 

John managed to keep his mouth from dropping open only because of years of training. “Excuse me?” 

“You didn’t know, did you? That you love him?” 

“I’m straight.“ 

Zoe rolled her eyes. “Men,” she muttered. “I’m not questioning your sexuality, John. Love takes many forms, and most of them don’t include sex.” She tilted her head and regarded him from a different angle. “It’s not _that_ different, though,” she added. “You might just like it.” 

“ _He’s_ straight,” John protested. 

“That’s what he wants you to think.” 

“He had a fiancee, a woman.” 

“So? You’re smart enough to know that doesn’t mean anything. Harold might not call himself gay or bi, but he’s definitely not _straight,_ ” she added emphatically. 

John stared into his reflection in the mirror for a moment, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Maybe.” 

“Give him my best,” she said. Zoe rested a hand on his shoulder. “Think about it, though. You might be surprised at what you find if you talk to him.” 

He glanced up at her. “Maybe,” he repeated. 

. 

. 

. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering options for the next chapter... Angst or Fluff? We'll see... :-)


	6. Dinner Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold invites John to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst wins!

“You seem pensive tonight, Mr. Reese,” Harold commented over dinner. It was his sixth day out of the hospital, the twelfth since he broke John out of Rikers, and he’d asked John to join him at a local restaurant following the conclusion of the work with their newest number, the first since Rikers. “Are you still thinking of Ms. Sheldon’s situation?” 

“No,” John said, his eyes and voice both a little distant. “I’m thinking about Jessica.” He held up a piece of pineapple from his salsa on his fork. “She loved pineapple.” 

Harold seemed to pause for a moment, just enough that John noticed the silence. “Oh. I shan’t pry.” 

The waiter approached to clear their plates and they waited. John started speaking again once he was out of earshot. “It got me thinking, though, wondering what her life was like with Peter. Was it always so bad? Were there good times that made her want to stay? Why would she stay when he kept hurting her?” 

Harold closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. 

“Do you know?” John demanded softly. “About her?” 

“Not her, specifically,” Harold responded, hating himself for the lie. He’d promised John he wouldn’t lie to him, but that promise had been a lie. He knew far more about Jessica Arndt and her life than he would ever tell John. He’d needed to know, once he saw that the number that kept coming up was connected, however distantly at the time, to John. “It always starts out wonderfully. Happily. You’re so much in love that nothing could ever go wrong. And when it does, there’s an easy explanation, a reason, an apology and a promise it’ll never happen again. By the time most people realize what’s going on, they’re already so addicted to the good times that they endure the bad ones just to get a glimpse of that person they knew at the beginning.” 

“Do you know this from experience?” John asked in a hushed voice, suspicious of Harold’s answer. Suspicious and worried. Harold didn’t deserve that kind of relationship. John made a mental note to track down any and all of Harold’s exes and knock some heads. He didn’t think Grace would fall in that category, but one never knew. Working with Kara hadn't been a cakewalk, he remembered, and he knew nothing else about Harold’s history other than Grace. Surely he’d had other partners? 

Harold looked up to meet his eyes. “I know it from seeing it everywhere, from reading about it. From the numbers.” He looked away. “I know it because that’s how I’ve been treating you this past week,” he added. “I’m ashamed of my behavior, Mr. Reese. I let the pain control me, control my moods, and I was cruel to you. I was going to —“ He broke off to swipe at his eyes. “I asked you to dinner tonight to apologize and to give you this.” He passed a thick manilla envelope across the table. 

John opened it and let the contents spill out. He looked through the documents. Five separate identities, each with multi-million dollar bank accounts, in five different cities. None in New York. He felt his dinner turn to lead in his stomach. He felt queasy. 

“You’re sending me away?” he asked, incredulous. He hadn’t expected this. Not after everything they’d been through. Not after the way he’d been taking care of Harold. Not after the way Harold _wanted_ him to hold him, even after he was out of the hospital. 

Not after he’d spent some time thinking about what Zoe said… 

“It can never make up for the way I treated you, Mr. Reese, but I hope that it will at least allow us to part on good terms.” 

John stared at him. 

“I’ll find someone else to work the numbers with me. I have a few candidates from before I chose you. It won’t be the same, of course, but I always knew you were unique.” Harold sighed and brushed away an actual tear. “It seems fitting that you would be thinking of Jessica and her situation tonight.” 

“I’m not leaving,” John said firmly. He scooped up the documents, shoved them back into the envelope and tried to hand it back. Harold ignored the gesture, so he put it in his jacket pocket to give to Harold when he was more himself. 

“John, I can’t promise that this won’t continue,” Harold insisted, reaching across the table to take both of John’s hands in his. “It’s so — difficult. I want to scream and rage and hit something and I would never forgive myself if I did that to you. You have to go. You have to let me protect you from me.” He paused and looked away briefly before looking back. “I didn’t keep my promise,” he admitted softly. “I _have_ lied to you. About her. About so many things. I said I wouldn’t and —“ 

John snorted softly. “I know, Harold. I’ve known a long time.” 

“What?” 

“It took me a little while to place you, but I remembered that I bumped into you the day I found out she died. You were in a wheelchair. I bribed someone to get the hospital security footage. I saw the file in your lap.” 

“You saw?” 

“It only took me an afternoon to find the file in the Library,” John continued. “You were thorough, as always, but there was someone else’s handwriting on the papers, too. Nathan’s, I presume?” 

“Yes. She was one of the first numbers he got. He didn’t have the set-up we do, he had to do everything himself. He — he got there too late to save her.” 

John nodded. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Reese. I didn’t want to open old wounds, and —“ 

“You didn’t know how I’d respond,” John finished for him. “You were probably right to wait until now,” he added as an afterthought. “I trust you, now,” he said. “And after the past few weeks… It’s made me think about things in a whole new light.” 

“How so?” 

“You’re in love with me, aren’t you?” John asked. “I wasn’t sure if I believed it until now, but…” He switched their hands so he could hold Harold’s. “I think it’s true.” 

Harold’s expression turned from intensity to confusion to sadness. He lowered his head in acknowledgment. 

“I should’ve known sooner, but this week convinced me,” John continued. “You never protested when Jonah called us partners. You never seemed to mind the whole staff at the hospital thinking we were together. You want me holding you. You haven’t corrected Donna when she calls me your boyfriend —“ 

Harold’s head shot up. “How do you know about that?” He tugged his hands from John’s, like he had that first day at the hospital, like John was fire burning him. “Is the Machine —“ 

“I bugged your place,” John interrupted. “I had to make sure you were safe.” 

Harold’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his face as he turned an interesting shade of purple. 

“Relax,” John rushed to add. “I turned it off when she asked about our sex life.” 

Harold deflated, curling in on himself. “I need to go, Mr. Reese,” he said at his most formal. “I’m due my medication.” 

“Not for another 40 minutes, you’re not,” John corrected. “You think I don’t have your schedule memorized? We have more than enough time to finish this conversation.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything more to say,” Harold grumbled. 

“I’m not leaving,” John repeated. 

“You’re not concerned that my behavior —“ 

“—Will go away as you get better,” John interrupted. “You’re not a violent person, Finch. You’re not an angry person. I’ve known you a lot longer than the usual honeymoon period, after all, so I should know.” 

“You don’t know me,” Harold murmured, echoing again that first day in the hospital. He thought of his researches into John’s life, into Jessica’s, into Peter’s. He thought about how he kept that information from John deliberately, how he used what he knew to manipulate the other man. Not that he did that any more, of course, but he’d felt that he needed to at the beginning, when John didn’t trust him yet. And now that John knew about that deception… 

“I think I do.” 

“And?” 

“And?” 

“Knowing what you know, what will you do?” 

“Well, I might try to kiss you goodnight at your front door,” John offered in a silky voice. “Like a proper date.” 

“Kiss me? Are you serious?” In his wildest dreams, Harold wouldn’t have expected that answer. He shivered, his back giving a twinge at the motion. 

“I’ve been thinking about it, Harold. You and me. It could work.” 

“And it could just as easily blow up in our faces,” Harold retorted. 

John tilted his head and regarded Harold carefully. “Is that a no to the kiss?” 

Harold swallowed. He fiddled with his napkin. “I don’t know.” He paused. “I never thought I’d tell you.” 

“How long have you felt this way?” 

“I realized it when I handed over several million dollars without a thought, just to have you stitched up,” Harold admitted. “I realized when I saw you in that train station, when I intended you to go on helping the numbers but instead you came to rescue me. I realized when you wouldn’t let me talk when I was drugged and wanted to tell you everything.” 

“You’ve realized it a lot of times, huh? And you never said anything. Why?” 

Harold rolled his eyes. “Why do you think?” he asked angrily. 

John shrugged. “I can probably give you five reasons without thinking about it.” 

Harold’s cheek jumped. “And they’re all correct,” he snapped. “I have 58 reasons why it would be a bad idea to tell you and 172 reasons why we wouldn’t work as a couple,” he continued. “Would you like to see the lists?” 

John froze, startled and disappointed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to compose himself. “You’re saying you _don’t_ want to —“ 

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the physical closeness between us of the past two weeks,” Harold said, interrupting him. “I’d be lying if I denied that a part of me wants that closeness to continue. That part of me wants more.” John opened his mouth to respond, but Harold held up a hand to stop him. “The fact remains that I haven’t been treating you respectfully. You’d be better off away from me.” 

“Maybe I should get to decide that for myself,” John replied. “Maybe I know you’re acting like that because of the pain. Maybe I’ve seen it before and I’m not worried about it.” 

“I’m still your employer,” Harold pointed out. 

John groaned softly, rubbing his temple. “We could argue about this for days and get no closer to an answer,” he said. “Do you want to just sit with the idea that I’m interested for a while before you decide anything?” 

“It feels too sudden, you saying something now.” 

“Honestly, it might never have occurred to me if the Machine hadn’t —“ He stopped, aware he’d crossed a line. The Machine talking to him remained a touchy subject between them, and Harold wasn’t convinced that it had stopped talking to him. 

“What? What did the Machine do?” Harold demanded. 

“It, uh, it said… it showed me —“ John stopped again and cursed to himself. Harold crossed his arms over his chest and glared, silently requiring an answer. “It showed me the lesson you gave it right before you left the Library to go to Rikers,” John said in a rush. 

“Take me home, Mr. Reese,” Harold barked in a cold voice. “Now.” 

John hesitated. “Harold, please listen —“ 

“Now.” 

John threw a wad of bills on the table and came around to get Harold and push the chair. 

They drove in silence, the atmosphere frigid and angry. At the apartment building, Harold informed John that he would make his own way upstairs and that John was dismissed until Harold called. He turned his back on John and wheeled himself into the elevator. 

. 

. 

. 


	7. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold react to their fight in the restaurant.

John activated the bugs in Harold’s apartment as soon as Harold was out of sight. He left for his loft and Bear, assuming Harold would track him. It wouldn’t do to be in the same building when he’d been sent away. He listened as Harold arrived and greeted the nurse in clipped tones. 

“Is it pain, or did you and John have a fight?” she asked. 

“Both,” Harold snapped. After she’d given him medicine and helped him change into his sleepwear and get ready for bed, Harold spoke again. “John, I expect you to send me the locations of every single bug or camera or piece of monitoring equipment you’ve placed in this apartment. You will deactivate them immediately and stop violating my privacy or there will be no question of you staying in New York.” 

John cursed to himself and turned off the bugs, the envelope with new identities heavy in his pocket. He didn’t bother with an apology when he sent Harold their locations, knowing it would seem insincere, no matter how much he meant it. 

It wasn’t his fault the Machine showed him that video and got him thinking. It wasn’t his fault Zoe insisted that Harold wasn’t straight and that he couldn’t let go of the thought, that it swirled and swirled in his head so constantly that he couldn’t think of anything else. It wasn’t his choice to — 

Actually, it was. He’d chosen to have the surgeons work on Harold’s back. He’d deliberately left bugs in the apartment. He’d confronted Harold about his feelings… Feelings he wouldn’t have known about or considered a possibility without the Machine’s intervention. 

What had he expected, anyway? That Harold would smile and kiss him and say, yes, they could date each other? That Harold would welcome him as a lover without question? 

Bullshit. He knew better than to expect that. Harold was complicated. Nothing was simple with him, especially emotions. He’d been a powder keg of anger all week, and bringing up a sensitive topic was sure to provoke an explosion of some kind. 

He knew better than this! What was wrong with him? 

He knew what was wrong, though. He’d gotten used to the idea of being with Harold romantically. He’d started looking forward to it. He’d imagined kissing him, holding him, feeling Harold’s fingers in his hair and against his skin. He knew sex was probably off the table for a while on account of Harold’s injuries and recovery, but that was a good thing. It gave him time to decide what he’d be comfortable doing. It gave him time to build up to it. 

It gave him time to court Harold appropriately, as was his due. 

Only now he’d fucked it all up and he’d probably lost his only chance. 

He hadn’t even gotten to kiss him! 

. 

. 

. 

Harold hadn’t cried himself to sleep since Nathan died and he’d had to leave Grace, and yet now he was sobbing into his pillow with heartbreak washing over him in waves. 

So close… 

If he’d just stopped naysaying, everything would be different. He might have let John kiss him goodnight. He might have invited John in for coffee and ended up making out with him like teenagers as he so wanted to do. He might have invited John into his bed again so he would have John’s strong arms around him as he slept. He found he slept better with John there. 

But, no. He had to go and ruin everything because his damned volatility and anger took over. His pessimism. His paranoia. His belief that it wouldn’t work, so why try? It would hurt less if he never tried, right? No chance of failure. 

He hated the Machine for revealing his feelings to John. He hated himself for having them. Then he hated himself for not acting on them sooner, and not telling John himself, and not trusting that even if John weren’t interested, they could at least remain friends. He hated the fear that held him back and the misery that surrounded him and the grief he’d never gotten over. He hated John for knowing, for bringing it up, for being open to the idea when he himself was so scared. 

In many ways this was worse than physical pain, he thought. At least he knew how to deal with that. The thought of losing John because of hasty words spoken in anger terrified him. 

John wouldn’t really leave, would he? He’d stay in New York? He’d answer Harold’s call when he got up the courage to call and apologize? 

“Why did you do it?” he moaned aloud. 

“I wanted you to be happy,” the Machine answered. 

“I wasn’t asking you!” Harold barked, grabbing his phone and throwing it across the room. It wouldn’t keep the Machine from hearing him or monitoring him, but it felt good to be able to throw something. 

. 

. 

. 

There were purple hyacinths on the kitchen table when Harold came into the room the next morning. Donna handed him the card. Simple and to the point, the card had a single word on it. _—John._

“I wouldn’t have thought you would know much about which flowers symbolize which emotions and messages,” he said to John when he spoke to him later. 

“There’s this useful thing called the internet,” John responded in a voice reminiscent of some of their earliest flirtations. “A friend of mine swears by it.” 

“I accept your apology,” Harold added. “And I give one of my own.” 

“Can I come to your PT today, or would you rather I stay away?” 

Harold closed his eyes for a moment to asses his feelings. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said. “I didn’t sleep particularly well, and I would be concerned that I would be likely to say more rash words in the heat of the moment that I don’t mean.” 

“I wouldn’t be the one putting you through the exercises,” John pointed out. 

“True,” Harold agreed. “But I’d like the time.” 

. 

. 

. 

They met in the park, Bear prancing between them. He’d only seen Harold a handful of times in two weeks, and was excited to have both of his masters together. John pushed Harold’s chair through the park, keeping mostly silent. Harold seemed content with the silence as well. They found a bench near the dog play area and John let Bear off-leash to run with his friends. Several of the other dog owners waved, and John nodded acknowledgment. 

“Do they recognize you, or Bear, do you think?” Harold asked. He set the brakes on his chair and got to his feet, stepping carefully free of it to take a few steps and sit on the bench. He let out a breath, already winded. Just that simple action took far longer than he remembered from before. Then again, he was relearning how to walk. It was bound to be a slow and painful process. 

“Probably Bear,” John said, moving the chair to the side and sitting next to Harold. “Looking good, Finch,” he added, giving Harold a sideways appreciative glance. “You’ve been practicing.” 

“Byron would flay me alive if he knew I was doing it without the support bars,” Harold murmured, massaging his hip. “But I thought you’d be able to catch me if my legs gave out.” 

“That goes without saying,” John answered. “Are they in danger of that?” 

“Probably not. It’s the pressure of my full weight on my spine that’s the issue. That it could push things out of joint or make me twist in the wrong way and pull something. I’m supposed to try walking every day, but he prefers to be present for now.” Harold rubbed his hands together to warm them. “My hip is protesting the inactivity,” he added. “Once my back is better, I’ll have to rehabilitate the hip next.” 

“I got a number earlier,” John said into the silence. He put a hand on Harold’s shoulder to keep him from jumping up. “I went by the Library, then did some quick recon on the number and his wife. They’re both at work and won’t get back until after seven, so I have some time here before I need to be there. I have an idea of what’s going on.” He handed Harold the file. 

“Domestic abuse,” Harold commented after a quick look. 

“Yeah.” 

“That seems to be the theme of the week.” 

“You’re not abusing me, Harold,” John declared. “I won’t hear you saying it again.” 

“But —“ 

John shook his head. “No.” 

Harold’s shoulders slumped. “If you insist,” he muttered. 

“I’ll read Fusco and Carter in,” John said. “We’ll be fine. Don’t stress over it.” 

“It seems that the last few numbers have been particularly easy,” Harold commented. “You’ve barely needed me at all.” 

“They won’t all be.” 

“No.” Bear ran up with a stick in his mouth and John obediently took it from him and threw it. “The Machine tried to talk to me last night,” Harold said. 

“Oh?” 

“It said it wanted me to be happy. I — I didn’t want to talk to it. I wouldn’t let it.” 

John nodded to himself and settled back against the bench. He put his arm along the back, inviting Harold to lean in. After a brief hesitation, he did. 

“What would you want out of this, John?” Harold asked. He tilted his body to press against John’s side and rested his hand on his thigh. 

“Permanence,” John whispered. He flicked a glance over at Harold again to gauge his reaction, seeing the confusion he expected. He knew it wouldn’t make sense until he explained it. “I know we’re living on borrowed time,” he added. “I know our mission is going to kill one or both of us. You promised that at the start, and I have no reason to doubt it now.” He paused. “I’ve been shot, stabbed and poisoned doing this job. You’ve been kidnapped, drugged. You almost died last week.” He closed his eyes. “But if I know you’ll be waiting for me to come home, I’ll —“ He opened his eyes again and met Harold’s. “If I know you’re waiting for me, I’ll have a reason to stay alive that’s more than me, more that the instinctive need for life.” 

John turned his body, letting his hand trail over Harold’s shoulders. He touched his cheek. “I’ve been lost for a very long time, Harold, and you found me. You saved me. How else can I repay you but give you my heart?” 

“John…” Harold breathed. 

“I’m not good at relationships. The longest I’ve had was six months, and I left her in a misguided attempt to keep her safe when what I was really doing was trying to avoid my own guilt for not being who she wanted to be when I knew from the beginning I’d never be that man.” He paused for effect. “You know me better than anyone ever has, and you accept me, the good and the bad, the darkness and the light. You accept me despite all the things I’ve had to do… the things I’ve chosen to do. I’ve come to admit that Jess wouldn’t have been able to do that.” 

“You are, on the most basic level, one of the gentlest men I know,” Harold said. “You’ve done horrible things, and it’s hurt you, but you remain true. Your loyalty, your dedication… I… If I may be selfish for just a moment, I want those things focused on me.” 

“You have them,” John promised. 

Harold’s lips twitched into a smile. “I know.” 

They sat gazing into each other’s eyes for a long moment. 

“So, does this mean we’re dating now?” John asked with a mischievous smirk, breaking the moment. Harold chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “Seriously, what now?” 

“You have a number to attend to, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. “And I need to get out of the cold before my joints stiffen any more than they already have.” 

. 

. 

. 


	8. The Return of Kara Stanton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Kara Stanton's number comes up, John has a choice: Does he tell Harold or take care of it by himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a nice long chapter for you. I thought about breaking it up, but it all went together cohesively, so... enjoy!

John called at half-past seven when Harold was sitting in the kitchen with Donna eating breakfast. 

“John?” he wondered, answering immediately despite the shaky ground between them. They’d had that talk at the park, then argued over what to do with the number, then John had wanted to come by when it was done less than four hours later, a new record for fastest time to solve a number’s problem, but Harold wouldn’t see him and they argued again. Harsh words were exchanged, and Harold had the embarrassing memory of telling John to forget about dating him if he was going to be such a ‘clingy boyfriend.’ 

_“And I don’t need a boyfriend so ambivalent about being with me that he changes his mind every 20 minutes!” John exclaimed. “I’ve told you what I want. Now it’s your turn to decide.”_

Harold rubbed his face to shake the sleep and memory from his eyes. 

“I didn’t expect —“ 

“Finch,” John replied, interrupting him and telling him he was calling about business all in the single word. “We have a problem. Can you come to the Library?” 

“What’s going on, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked, switching to the Finch persona. It felt safer. He knew who they were when they were Finch and Reese, whereas Harold and John were… complicated. 

“The new number is Kara Stanton,” John said in a cold voice. 

Harold paused, confusion leaking into his voice. “I thought she died in Ordos?” 

“The Machine doesn’t send the numbers of dead people,” John reminded him. “It thinks she didn’t die there. Can you come, or do you have enough resources at the apartment to help me figure out what she’s doing?” 

“I’ll —“ He looked over to Ms. Mayfield, who had gotten up to do the dishes and give him privacy on the phone. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said. He hung up and started texting. 

. 

. 

. 

John was tightening the straps on a new vest when Harold wheeled into the main room of the Library. Dressed as immaculately as ever, he painted the picture of health. If one discounted the chair. And the bags under his eyes. And the pinched look of pain hovering over his expression. 

“Do you have any idea what she’s planning?” Harold asked, pushing the usual office chair out of the way to get to his computers. He glanced at the stack of books that provided Kara’s number and the picture of her John put on the glass board. There were smaller pictures of Mark Snow and John himself underneath hers, as well as several aliases and some info on CIA assignments. 

“No idea,” John replied. He picked up his shirt. “But I doubt she’ll be a victim,” he added darkly. 

“I agree, unfortunately,” Harold said. He started typing. “Now the task is finding her.” 

“How did you find me?” John asked. “Could you use that method?” 

Harold rubbed his forehead. “I’d been keeping tabs on you since 2004,” he admitted. “Finding you after Ordos was simple, especially once you came back to the city. I haven’t been watching for Ms. Stanton, thinking her dead.” 

“Since ’04?” 

“March 30, to be precise,” Harold said, deciding honesty might help his cause for a change. “I was in Times Square testing the Machine, asking it to identify people. When I pointed you out, it couldn’t identify you, so I investigated.” 

“I didn’t leave the army until June that year,” John said. He started arming himself. More than for usual numbers, Harold noted. Good. “I was still using my real name back then.” 

“You’d only been in New York for a few hours,” Harold explained. “The Machine didn’t have enough data to pinpoint your past and determine your identity. It took six months to fix the code so that it could. You’d changed your name, but I — I’d kept in a line to track your movements to make sure it worked, and the Machine found your new identity when I tested the coding. It told me you disappeared, which is when I went looking and found out about your CIA connection. Then I just…” He trailed off. “I never took the line out, so I got updates periodically.” 

“How periodically?” John asked, his voice full of suspicion. 

“Every quarter,” Harold admitted. He opened a new window and motioned for John to look. It showed a map of the world, with dots at various locations where John had been. Harold clicked on the one for Ordos and a selection of pictures popped up. John and Kara hiking through the brush. John and Kara at the facility. The chemical flares lighted up from above, being tracked and targeted. The explosion from above. The explosion from the side. A hunched figure in the darkness that John recognized as himself. He pointed to it. 

“Where’s that from?” 

“One of the facility’s security cameras,” Harold explained. “They were on a separate generator.” 

“You know how I got out,” John stated. 

“Yes.” 

“You know why it took so long to get to New York.” 

“Yes.” 

“You followed me once I was here?” 

“That’s how I knew I’d see you at the hospital that day. I’d been tracking you continuously since you allowed Mr. Casey to escape.” 

“Casey?” 

“You didn’t kill him when you were ordered to. It made you question the government even more than you already were that they would have you kill an innocent man and label him a traitor.” 

“Continuously, though?” 

Harold sighed. “My associate at the time, Mr. Dillinger, was killed later that evening. You’d left the country by the time I went to look for you, thinking to recruit you to my cause in his stead, but I knew that I’d approach you the next time you were in New York to try to lure you away from the CIA. So I started monitoring you and your progress.” 

John grunted. “What did you do between losing him and hiring me?” 

“A series of mercenaries. I’d work one or two numbers with each, as many as four, then cut them loose. A necessary precaution I learned from my experience with Mr. Dillinger.” 

“Why didn’t you come to me as soon as I was back here?” 

“After seeing your expression when you found out that she’d died, I wanted to give you time to grieve for Jessica.” Harold paused. “When I heard that you’d been arrested, however, I took it upon myself to help you.” 

“Well, we know what happened after that,” John muttered. He turned away for a moment. “Why’d you point me out as a test originally?” 

Harold pressed his lips together and resumed his attention on the screens in front of him. 

“Harold?” John asked, coming up behind him. “Why’d you pick me?” He put a hand on Harold’s shoulder when the man still didn’t answer. Harold twitched. He squeezed Harold’s shoulder and let go, taking a step back. 

“I was attracted to you,” Harold whispered towards his chest. “I was curious who you were and whether there would be any point in approaching you when my work was finished that evening.” 

“The Machine can tell you someone’s sexuality?” 

Harold sighed and stopped typing. “It has data that can be read a certain way. Who spends time with whom, when, and for how long. It goes through purchases, receipts, trends. It finds connections between people. I could interpret those results then, before I closed the system.” 

John drew in a deep breath and held it, going over the thought in his head a few times before allowing himself to breathe. “You’ve been interested in me this whole time? Since back then?” 

“To greater and lesser degrees,” Harold admitted. “It’s been so long, I was used to the idea that I’d never mention it, never talk about it.” 

“Never get it,” John added. 

“As you say, Mr. Reese.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to resist the urge to scratch at the healing skin. “Once I’d gotten to know you, I realized there weren’t any signs you’d ever be interested, so I’ve done my best to let the idea go. Until recently, of course.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” John asked, shrugging into his jacket now that he had the guns settled. “Last night you said —“ 

“I apologize,” Harold said. “I keep apologizing, but they’re no less sincere for their frequency. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I should have listened to your explanation. I — I’m feeling… out of control and it makes me respond poorly. It makes me doubt myself and my desires.” 

“And I shouldn’t have —” 

“No,” Harold interrupted. “Don’t take on blame that’s not yours. It wasn’t your fault the Machine showed you that video and started this whole mess. It wasn’t your fault I became angry or said harsh things. Never believe it was your fault.” 

“Still,” John muttered. 

“If I’m not allowed to voice my fears about my actions towards you, then you’re no longer permitted to take the blame for things that aren’t your fault!” Harold declared firmly. John grunted in response. 

The computer beeped and Harold pulled up a new window. 

“A building downtown that houses a floor for the Department of Defense just reported a bomb threat,” Finch said. “I suggest you try going there first in the hunt for Ms. Stanton. The floor isn’t listed in the directory, but it’s on the blueprints.” 

“What does she want with the DoD?” 

“Nothing good, I’d wager,” Finch replied dryly. He pushed back from the desk and went to rummage in one of the card catalogue drawers. He pulled out an envelope and rifled through the swipe-cards until he found a particular one. Then he took out an ID from another drawer and handed both to John. “This identity should get you into the facility, though it won’t get you into the most secure labs once you’re inside. I’ll start hacking the DoD once you’re en route to see if I can find out what that particular facility is doing. We should keep the line open as much as possible.” 

“Of course,” John replied, glancing at the ID. “Calvin? Really?” 

“Deal with it,” Finch snapped, turning to wheel himself back to his desk. John moved in front of his chair and crouched before him. “Mr. Reese?” 

“John,” he corrected, reaching out to cup Harold’s cheek in his palm. He caught and held Harold’s eyes. “You might have 172 reasons why this wouldn’t work, but I have a damned good one why it _would_. I trust you. That’s not something I give lightly, as you know. And if I’m going off to meet my fate in the name of Kara Stanton, I’d really like to know what it’s like to kiss you first.” 

“We’ve already kissed,” Harold said. 

“Not for a mission,” John replied, shaking his head. “Not as whoever we were supposed to be that day. For us. Finch and Reese. Harold and John.” 

Harold raised his hand to cover John’s. “If you kiss me, you need to promise you’ll make it back alive, John,” he said intensely, his eyes locked on John’s. “Because what I said to the Machine is true. I _am_ in love with you. And I don’t know what I’d do without you now that you know of my feelings. Now that there’s a chance you reciprocate them.” 

“I promise I’ll come back,” John said. “She tried to kill me and failed once already. She’ll fail again.” 

“You can’t be certain…” 

“I have you on my side this time,” John murmured. “I have a real reason to come back, not just a misty dream of an old ex. I _want_ to try this new thing between us.” 

Harold licked his lips and closed his eyes, leaning as far forward as his back would allow. John met him and pressed their lips together. They kissed a second time, gently. A third and fourth. John pulled away. 

“Thank you, Harold,” he said, letting his hand slip from Harold’s cheek. He stood. 

“Be careful, John. I’ll be here or the apartment when you’re done,” he added unnecessarily. 

John chuckled. “I’ll count on it.” 

. 

. 

. 

Harold waited anxiously in the van six blocks from the DoD building. He couldn’t risk getting any closer, not with the building swarming with agents and officials from several government agencies, but he needed to be nearby. Just in case. 

If John needed an extraction… 

He’d lost contact with John an hour ago. Kara Stanton had noticed John as soon as she broke into the DoD with Mark Snow, and in the three minutes before she found and deactivated John’s phone, Harold heard gunfire, talk of bomb vests, and something about a computer virus. He’d alerted Detectives Carter and Fusco that John was in the building working on the bomb threat. 

He closed his eyes and thought of John and Ms. Stanton. Would John be tempted to join her cause? Would he be tempted to return to her? To be her lover again? He _did_ prefer women, after all. 

It was all so new between him and John. So new and unpredictable. They argued. They talked… He felt more comfortable that morning talking to John of his past and admitting to his surveillance of him than he expected he ever would. And yet he’d wanted to tell John, to clear the air between them that John didn’t know needed to be cleared. 

Though he suspected John suspected. 

John wouldn’t return to her. He wouldn’t betray Harold and the Machine and their cause. 

He’d wanted to try this… _asked_ for a kiss… 

An explosion rocked the ground from several streets away. Harold left off his DoD research and found a video camera that could show him the explosion. Kara Stanton got into a car. A male figure appeared in the backseat. The car exploded. 

The resolution was too low to be able to tell if it was John in the car, no matter how he tried to enhance it. His back spasmed painfully. He shut his eyes to ride through it. 

Once he could breathe again, he raised his hand to touch his lips. Had that been their first and last kisses all in one? He couldn’t believe it. He _couldn’t._

John promised he’d come back! 

A knock on the window startled him out of his painful thoughts. He looked over to see Detective Carter standing there, so he lowered the window. 

“Please tell me John got out,” she said. 

“I don’t know,” he answered, trying to maintain a calm facade. “The explosion was in a car near the building, not the building itself, but I don’t know if he was in the car or still in the building.” 

“Call me when you know,” she ordered, moving to leave. Then she stopped and turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “Why are you in a wheelchair van?” she demanded bluntly. 

“My car is in the shop,” he replied, summoning up a haughty tone that probably wouldn’t work on her. Fusco, yes, he’d just pretend to ignore his own curiosity, but Carter would push. 

“Yeah, and I bet that’s not blood on your collar, too?” she persisted. 

He reached around to feel his neck. He’d pulled stitches. Again. No wonder it hurt so much! He’d been letting the fear and anxiety for John’s life keep the pain at bay, but it had been creeping up more and more as he sat in the uncomfortable driver’s seat and hunched over his laptop. The spasm hadn’t been good for him, either. 

“Nothing to concern you, Detective,” he said. 

Her eyes traveled up and down what she could see of him through the window. “Hand controls,” she commented. Without saying anything more she walked around the van and got in on the passenger side. She glanced over her shoulder to see the wheelchair where it waited for him. “What happened at Rikers?” she asked in a softer voice. “How badly are you hurt?” 

Harold paused. 

“Harold, please,” she pleaded. “You gotta tell me something.” 

He thought about lying and covering up the extent of his injuries. He thought about what John would say if he knew he’d told her… 

John wanted him to tell the detectives. He wanted them to know why Finch had been so silent recently. He wanted them more firmly on their side so they’d be more helpful with the numbers while Harold healed. 

Yet another thing they’d argued about. 

“It’s my back, not my legs,” he admitted. “I’m recovering at a reasonable pace for my injuries, I’m under constant medical care and I have a physical therapist meet with me twice a day.” 

“And yet you’re still out here doing this kind of thing?” she asked as if she couldn’t believe that Harold would do it. “Don’t you need a break?” 

“People remain in danger, despite my personal circumstances,” Harold answered. “May I remind you that you didn’t take any time off when you were shot by your CI last year?” 

“That’s different. I’m a cop.” 

“And I hold my responsibilities at the same level,” Harold said. His phone rang, an unlisted number. “Yes?” 

“I’m alive,” John said. “But it’ll take me a while to get back with all the Feds around here. I’m not leading them to your door.” 

“I appreciate the information and consideration, Mr. Reese. Thank you.” Harold hung up. He looked over at Carter. “John’s alive. Now, please, detective. I must meet him at the rendezvous point.” 

She got out of the van reluctantly. “You call me if you need _anything,_ ” she told him. 

“I will,” he promised, though he suspected she knew it for the white lie it was. He would only call her for the numbers, and they both knew it. “Give my regards to Detective Fusco.” 

. 

. 

. 

“I hope it was worth it,” Donna Mayfield said that evening. “You’ve set back your healing by several weeks. You can’t move, your pain’s at a six and I have to redo these sutures!” 

“As I said, John needed —“ 

The front door intercom buzzed and Donna rushed to answer it. Harold heard her gasp of horror from the other room and tried to push himself up to a sitting position, or at least onto his elbows so he wasn’t face-first flat in bed. He was in such pain from neglecting himself all day that it didn’t work. 

“John!” she exclaimed, her voice now one of upset. “What happened?” 

“Ex-girlfriend,” John replied in that smooth, easy voice he adapted when he was lying. “Is Harold back?” 

“In here, Mr. Reese,” Harold called. John stopped short in the doorway. “If you’re going to say something, now would be the time,” Harold continued bitterly, knowing it was the sight of his back with its dark bruises and roadmap of scars, healing surgical sites, and black sutures that made John pause. 

“Looks like the surgeons did a good job,” John replied, in a voice Harold had never heard before and had a difficult time placing. “Though there are simpler ways to get me to put my hands on you other than laying out exposed like that,” he added in his familiar, flirtatious voice. The voice Harold hadn’t really heard since he’d woken up in the hospital. God, how he’d missed that voice! 

John stepped into the room and gracefully sunk into the chair at the head of the bed. Harold strained his neck to get a look at his face. “What happened?” he asked, lifting a hand. John obediently lowered his torso so Harold could touch the bruising around his eye with tender fingertips. 

“Kara and Mark,” John explained. “She had him distract me while she took care of her business. Then she knocked me out and left us both with his vest set to go live in five minutes,” he added, editing his words because of the nurse who was walking back in with an ice-pack for his eye. “Not sure why she didn’t finish the job, but maybe she thought the vest would do it for her. Mark managed to get the door open and took off. I heard the explosion as I was coming to.” 

John sat up again and held the ice-pack to his eye. “I got myself checked out. No concussion. _And_ I know what she was doing there.” He pulled a large disk-like hard drive from his pocket. “I thought she was there to steal one of the — programs —“ he continued, replacing the word ‘cyberweapon’ as he spoke. “I deleted them all from the system. That wasn’t her aim, though. She uploaded something from this to the servers.” 

“A virus?” Harold asked. 

“I think so.” 

Harold closed his eyes tiredly. “If you could store that in a secure location, I’ll look at it tomorrow.” 

“Ok.” John stood. 

“Where are you going?” Harold blurted. 

“To put this somewhere secure?” John replied in his stating-the-obvious voice. 

“You don’t have to do it immediately,” Harold said. John sat down again. Harold offered his hand and John took it without needing to be asked. “Now that you’ve seen… You might as well keep me company while Ms. Mayfield applies the creams and medications,” he added with a heavy sigh. 

“Of course,” John answered, squeezing Harold’s hand briefly. “Always.” 

. 

. 

. 

Harold fell asleep halfway through. John followed Donna from the room to give him quiet and closed the door behind them. Harold’s phone rang almost immediately, and John rushed back in to get it and answer it before it woke him. 

“Carter,” he greeted the detective. 

“John! What the hell are you doing, letting him out in the field when he’s in a wheelchair?” she demanded without preamble. “And where have you been? We’ve been worried sick!” 

“I didn’t _let_ him in the field,” he protested. “I left him at the — at his office.” 

“Well, he was in a van six blocks from the building. You gotta keep a better eye on him.” 

John rubbed his face. “I’ll talk to him.” 

“Good. Now are you going to tell me what happened to him?” 

“Not my place,” John said. His eyes flickered to Harold’s door and he stalked away towards the far end of the apartment. “I’m taking care of him.” 

“Not well enough!” 

“Look, today was an aberration. It won’t happen again.” 

“What was so special about today?” she demanded. “He was in _no_ position to be out there.” 

John paused, considering his words. “The people I was after today were Mark Snow and my ex-partner,” he admitted. “I needed backup.” 

“Then why didn’t you call me and Fusco? Harold did!” 

“He wasn’t supposed to —“ He broke off, hearing the passion in his own voice. “Damnit, Carter, you think it was easy to call him after he told me not to? I wasn’t going to tell him, just go after her on my own, but she’s too good. I couldn’t find her!” 

“He told you not to call him?” she asked softly. “Why?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“What’s going on between you two?” 

“It’s complicated.” 

“Oh, my God, are you _sleeping together?”_

“No! At least, not yet,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Not yet? Really? John, I thought better of you. And him!” 

“It’s not what you think…” 

“No? And how is it _not_ you taking advantage of him?” 

“Because I’m bigger and stronger, is that it?” he demanded defensively. 

“John…” 

“I’ve never done that with a woman and I certainly don’t intend to start with him,” he hissed. “We’re going slowly. At his pace.” He stopped. “Was there anything else?” 

She sighed and John imagined the look of exasperation on her face. “The FBI is closing its case on you. They’ve identified Snow as the Man in the Suit. He’s dead.” 

“I know.” 

“Is there anything you _don’t_ know?” 

“Harold’s favorite color.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s that russet brown that has a hint of orange,” she said with a laugh. “He loves orange, but the brown is what really stands out for him.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I’m not a detective for nothing. I _earned_ my badge.” There was a moment of silence. “I hope you two know what you’re doing,” she said in a friendlier voice, though no less worried. 

“So do I,” John agreed. 

_._

_._

_._


	9. Midnight Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John calls Harold in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of fluff.

“Harold, are you there?” John whispered, touching the earwig he never removed except in the shower. 

“Always, Mr. Ree— John,” Harold replied, correcting himself. “Trouble sleeping?” 

“Yes.” John rolled his head to see the clock by the bed. 02:41, the middle of the night. “Too many thoughts in my head, too many questions,” he elaborated. 

“If talking with me will help, I’ll gladly listen,” Harold said. His voice, like John’s, was soft, though his was also a little sleepy. 

“If you need to sleep…” 

“I’m due my medication in twenty minutes. I tend to wake half an hour or more beforehand, even now. Go on.” 

“I’m not used to talking about this kind of thing,” John admitted. 

“You mean feelings?” Harold suggested gently. 

“Yeah.” John paused. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you, but I don’t have anyone else.” 

“Ah.” John heard the understanding in Harold’s voice. He knew what was in John’s mind, it seemed. “Ms. Morgan —“ 

“Would tell me to stop thinking and just do it,” John interrupted. “That’s not an option.” 

Harold made a noise of acknowledgement. 

“I’m not… gay,” John said hesitantly. “I know… how… things are supposed to work, but… I’ve never been attracted to a man before. Never been aroused by one.“ He stopped. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I don’t know if I’d like it,” he added in an even softer voice, embarrassed to admit such a weakness. “What happens if I don’t?” 

“If we’re talking about a particular activity,” Harold said gently and reassuringly, “We’re weeks, if not months, before it becomes an option. There’s a lot of other things to do in the meantime.” 

“I know. I think that’s why I want to talk about it now, before it’s time for that _particular activity_.” 

“There’s no timetable,” Harold offered. “Nothing we _have_ to do. And even when my body is ready for that kind of thing, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I’d like it anymore either,” Harold continued. 

“Really?” 

“My body is very different from the last time I had this conversation with someone. I’ve had injures, surgeries, rehab. I’ve been in chronic pain for years, and I’m not convinced that it will ever go away.” 

“You don’t think PT is helping?” 

“It’s too soon to tell. I’ll have a better sense in a few more weeks. Four to six weeks is a good time to reassess.” 

John closed his eyes and thought about the possibility Harold just brought up. “If it were on the table, how would it work?” 

“I don’t think a table is an appropriate surface for such an activity any longer, Mr. Reese,” Harold said primly, though he ended with a teasing tone. “We _are_ middle-aged, after all, and I’m accustomed to a certain amount of comfort that I would be loathe to do without.” 

“Finch…” John growled. 

“Seriously, if you’re asking if I have certain preferences, you’ll find that I’m rather versatile. Or I was. It’s been a while.” 

“How long?” 

“Twenty-nine years.” 

“I’m not sure if I should ask more questions or not,” John said. 

“It’s not about should, John,” Harold replied. “It’s a question of you wanting to know or not. For this sort of situation, honesty is the only option. It’s the only topic in my adult life about which I’m completely truthful. Always.” 

John let out a breath. 

“While I primarily dated women, I allowed myself the opportunity to experiment in college and for a few years afterwards. I enjoyed the experiences, but when I realized the extent of the AIDS epidemic and the lack of knowledge around communicability, I decided it was safer to refrain.” 

“How logical,” John commented. 

“It was hardly a logical decision,” Harold said. “I was afraid.” 

“For good reason.” John opened and closed his hands a few times. “Why haven’t you done it since, now that we know how to be safe?” 

Harold cleared his throat. “For many years I worked extended hours and didn’t give myself the opportunity. I’d convinced myself that I was older and no longer had the drive of youth and therefor didn’t need sexual intimacy. I convinced myself that I wasn’t able to interact well enough with people to be successful in a romantic endeavor, with either sex. I didn’t have the inclination to meet men or the patience to meet women. Then 9/11 happened and I spent years building the Machine.” He paused. “You know about Grace.” 

“Did she know about your college years?” 

“Of course.” 

There was a very long pause as neither spoke. 

“Come upstairs,” Harold suggested. “I’d very much like to hold you.” 

John let out a relieved breath that Harold knew he was in the same building and wasn’t upset about it. “Ok.” 

. 

. 

. 

Harold lay on his side facing John, his head propped up on pillows to support his neck. He tucked John’s head against his chest and ran his fingers through his hair in a soothing, repetitive gesture. John had an arm over his waist, the other under his own head. 

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Harold crooned. 

“Yes,” John said in a choked voice. 

“Good. Now close your eyes and let your mind drift. You’re safe.” 

“I don’t know what safe is anymore. If I ever knew to begin with.” 

“For right now, in this moment, safety is here, holding each other.” 

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” John admitted. His body started trembling. 

“I think, my darling, that you’re about to cry.” Harold continued stroking John’s hair, adding his cheek and the back of his head to the motions. “You haven’t been able to let go since my accident, have you? Not with Ms. Stanton showing up just as we had a bit of time to reflect. It’s ok to let it out. I won’t judge you. Let me hold you up for a few moments as you so often hold me.” 

Harold’s words proved to be the release he needed and John sobbed, clutching Harold tighter against him and pushing his face against Harold’s chest. Harold’s silk pajamas were smooth under his cheek, and the soft melody of Harold’s voice sounded like comfort. His body felt strong, supportive even, despite the pins and plates and whatever else that held it together. John never wanted to let go. 

“I — I think I love you,” John said after a few minutes of crying. “I’m not afraid of dying, but the thought of you —” He broke off, unable to continue. 

“I’m here,” Harold murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Harold, Harold. What are we going to do?” 

“We’re going to take care of each other. We’re going to be more deliberate with our safety when working the numbers. We’re going to talk more, communicate better.” 

“I don’t know how,” John moaned, his voice cracking. 

“We’ll figure it out together.” 

John nodded silently and cuddled closer. Harold kissed the top of his head. 

“We love each other, John,” Harold murmured. “That’s all there is to it. The rest are details we can work out later.” 

. 

. 

. 

“Carter thinks this is a bad idea,” John said into the pre-dawn darkness. They’d shifted a few times in the night, but they remained close, holding each other, drifting in and out of sleep and conversation. John thought he was starting to learn what Harold meant by feeling safe with him, that he could spend hours in bed with him and not worry about either of them being killed or the numbers or the next crisis. It felt like the ‘grounding’ his yoga teachers always talked about. 

Harold opened his mouth to ask ‘How on Earth does Detective Carter know anything about this?’ and closed it without speaking. He knew the answer from listening in, and if he asked that he’d just give John the opportunity to feel guilty that he’d not chosen his words more carefully or regulated his tone well enough when speaking to her. 

“Does her opinion change yours?” Harold asked after considering his own words. 

“No.” 

John paused, hesitating over what to say next. 

“Ask,” Harold said encouragingly, rubbing John’s back. 

“You asked what I want out of this,” John said. “What do you want?” 

“After missions I want to be able to hold you like this,” Harold offered. “To comfort you. To kiss you. I want to give you the permanence you crave, the home you’ve never had. I want to help you heal from the brutality that’s been your life until now. I also want you to know me. I want to show you where I live, and tell you about my past, and bring you into my bed and teach you that it’s not so different with me as with a woman.” 

“How different is it?” John asked. “Really?” 

Harold thought again before answering. “As different as Jessica Arndt and Zoe Morgan.” 

“Day and night,” John said, 

“Perhaps not as different as that. You wanted to kiss me the other day.” 

“I still want to kiss you.” 

Harold smiled as dawn broke through the window. “Good.” 

John ran his fingers over Harold’s cheekbones, then his eyebrows. He touched Harold’s lips. He held the back of his head and moved to kiss him. Over and over they kissed, becoming more bold as they settled into a rhythm. Back and forth, a little here, a little there, first John pressing harder, then Harold. He felt the stirring of desire between his legs. 

Harold shifted, pressing a thigh against John’s burgeoning erection, making him gasp. Harold took advantage of his open mouth and slipped his tongue inside, giving John a host of new sensations to assimilate. John felt Harold’s fingers lingering on the small traces of bruising around his eye, but he paid it no mind, more concerned with the texture of Harold’s tongue against his own, of Harold’s fingers moving to his hair, of Harold’s leg pressing so gently and making him feel so much. 

No one had kissed him like this in over ten years… Languidly, sensuously, without pressure or haste… Kissing for the sake of kissing, not as a precursor to anything else. He kept his eyes closed and stroked his tongue into Harold’s mouth, getting no protest for the bold action. 

In fact, Harold seemed to relax as they kissed, his muscles losing some of their ever-present tension. 

“It’s not so different, is it?” Harold wondered, ending the kissing so they could look at each other. His expression was open, happy. His smile was bigger than John had ever seen before. 

John panted, his heart racing, his eyes wide. He felt afraid. He felt exposed. He felt his world crumbling around him at the intensity of it all. Interrogations and torture hadn’t been as difficult as this! 

Harold’s smile wilted and became sad. He moved his leg so that he wasn’t touching John. “It’s ok, John. There’s no need to be afraid. I won’t use this vulnerability against you.” He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against John’s, his hand moving to rest on John’s chest, over his heart. “I won’t use this to hurt you.” 

John licked his lips. “How do you know what I’m thinking?” 

“I know you,” Harold replied. “I know how to read you. I’ve never seen you this scared.” 

“I —“ 

“I won’t take this away now that I know you want it,” Harold continued. “This wasn’t a test. It wasn’t a trick.” He cradled John’s head to his chest again. “I want this just as much and I’m not going anywhere.” 

John squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the overwhelming sensation of tears burning behind his eyelids for the second time that night. “I _do_ want it,” he admitted. 

“I know. You have it.” 

“I haven’t wanted anything in — years.” 

“You have it,” Harold repeated. 

John made a strangled sound and started crying again, though quietly this time. Harold held him and kept up the steady string of reassurances John needed. After a while he calmed down, relaxing into a fitful doze. Harold closed his eyes, his mind buzzing with ideas about ways to make their lives safer as they worked the numbers. Code streamed in front of his eyelids, and he wished for a computer, but there was no way he was going to disturb John now. 

He’d always wondered if John would respond to physical touch, if he’d be able to release some of his pain if he had someone with whom to do it safely. He suspected there would be more conversations like this in their future, starting out over the phone and ending up in bed. Holding each other, kissing. He didn’t mind. If John needed the illusion of distance to be able to talk about some of these things, so be it. 

John’s breathing steadied, soothing Harold into sleep. 

. 

. 

. 

A knock on the door startled John awake, his army and CIA instincts taking over in a heartbeat. John rolled out of bed and had his gun raised and pointed at the door in an instant. 

“John!” Harold hissed softly, reprovingly. John ignored him, focused on the threat outside. 

“Harold, I’m putting your tea on,” Donna Mayfield said through the door. 

“Thank you, Ms. Mayfield,” Harold called back. “I’ll be there shortly,” he added. He met John’s eyes, telling him to stand down. Reluctantly, John lowered his gun. “If you would make enough coffee for John, as well, I would be most grateful.” 

“Sure thing, Harold,” she answered, laughing. “I thought I’d heard him come in last night. Morning, John!” 

John let out a breath and glared at Harold. “Morning,” he responded in as neutral voice as he could manage. They heard her walk away. “What does she think we —?” 

“We’re dating, John,” Harold said matter-of-factly. “It’s standard procedure for people to spend the night with their boyfriends.” 

John didn’t answer, turning his back and shoving his gun in the back of his waistband. He frowned to himself. 

Harold rolled into a sitting position, groaning slightly. John jumped to help him, but he held up a hand. “I have to do this myself,” he told him. John watched silently, his fingers twitching with the desire to make things easier on Harold, but he held himself back. CIA training was good for some things, occasionally, he decided. Once Harold was in the wheelchair and on the way to the bathroom, he allowed himself to relax slightly. Harold’s apartment was safe. Donna Mayfield was safe. Nothing would happen in the two minutes while Harold took care of his bodily functions. Nothing would happen when he left Harold alone to take care of his own. 

“In the future, John, I’d prefer to keep the firearms _out_ of bed,” Harold said when he returned. 

“Gotta be prepared,” John replied, trying for his usual humor. It fell flat and he decided he needed to wash his face, too. He didn’t want Donna seeing the evidence of his emotions. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Harold declared in a voice that told John he would lose the argument no matter what he said. Then he pushed himself painfully to his feet to kiss John good morning. 

. 

. 

. 


	10. Logan Pierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan Pierce comes up as the latest number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll recognize bits of dialogue because I felt it necessary to set the scene.

The four-minute walk to Dr. Shapiro’s office from the waiting room took Harold much longer, even with a cane in one hand and John’s arm under the other. He was determined to make it to the office without the wheelchair, though they had it on hand for after the appointment. He’d walked before, of course, but not for such a long stretch in a straight line. He was used to the back-and-forth of the PT sessions or transferring in and out of his wheelchair and the occasional walks around the apartment with John or Donna hovering nearby. His toes were starting to feel numb when the payphone beside them began ringing. A nurse rushed over to answer it, but hung up immediately, laughing to her friend that it was another ‘ghost call.’ 

It started ringing again. 

Harold closed his eyes and let out a frustrated breath. “John?” 

John steered him to a bench and went to answer the phone. He came back a moment later with a slip of paper. “We’ll go to the Library after your appointment,” he said. 

“No need,” Harold replied. “Just hand me my laptop. I’ve been writing a program to make that step unnecessary if it’s not as viable an option as usual.” 

“You’re making the Library irrelevant?” John asked, his eyes twinkling with mirth. His eyes looked like that far more often lately, ever since their first middle-of-the-night confessional-turned-make-out session, even with a string of numbers that hadn’t let up in the weeks since and only allowed them the occasional time for the leisurely kissing they both enjoyed. 

“Of course not,” Harold answered, already focused on his computer and typing. “I’m just increasing our efficiency while we’re away from it.” 

“I’m just teasing, Harold,” John murmured, stroking the backs of his fingers down Harold’s cheek. Harold paused in his typing to appreciate the gesture, still so new between them. Especially during the day, outside the apartment/Library. He hadn’t expected John to be shy about displaying affection in public given how tactile he was when they were alone, but then again, John didn’t like displaying _anything_ of himself in public, so he should’ve known it would be rare. “Once we know who it is, we’re going to your appointment. Then we can look into it.” 

“All right,” Harold agreed, knowing John was right. They’d put off this appointment for a number twice already, though he also suspected he was doing it semi-deliberately. He wasn’t sure he was ready to accept the facts of his recovery. 

Walking was difficult, yes, but he was in much less pain than immediately after the surgeries. And he was getting better. At six-weeks post surgery, he felt remarkably good, he allowed himself to admit. He could sit with his laptop or at his computer desk for several three-hour stretches in a day, and the physical therapist said he was making good progress. He didn’t feel as exhausted and wrung out. He could even climb five or six steps with the help of a railing and his cane. 

His libido, completely absent since the ferry bombing, had returned with a vengeance last week, making him feel overtaken by need and lust. He and John hadn’t moved past making out and a little fondling in the dark of night, though, so it wasn’t his highest concern. He was used to suppressing his own desires, and John’s comfort with expressing sexuality in a way he’d never considered came first. 

The biggest change was that he could move his neck more freely. Part of the surgeries had been to shave down the pins in his neck, increasing his range of motion without decreasing stability, as the bone graft from the initial surgery was old enough to be fully-healed. He marveled at how much better he felt, being able to turn even the little he was permitted so far. It made him smile. It made John smile when he smiled. 

It almost made him want to thank Agent Donnelly for getting them into the mess that necessitated the surgeries. Almost. 

He’d rather thank John for taking the risk and authorizing them. 

He hadn’t found the words, though. How did he thank John for something he’d been complaining about? How did he thank him for something he’d yelled at him for doing? For something he’d claimed was a violation of his body? For something he’d told him he didn’t want and would never have wanted? 

Now that he’d had the surgery, no matter the circumstances, he was learning that pain wasn’t as all-consuming as it had been before. 

Yes, he was in pain. Yes, he’d be in pain for a long time. Yes, there would always be circumstances that increased it. Yes, he’d never have full range of motion. 

But he had more range of motion than before. And less pain. 

No wonder his libido came back! 

And John, aside from being the man he loved, had been the one to take away the pain. No wonder he wanted to strip him naked and do all sorts of wicked things with him. 

Too bad John was still so nervous. 

Too bad he shared that nervousness. 

Not of the sex, though, unlike John. Not of the change in their relationship that would come with the increased intimacy, but rather of his body’s ability to provide for such intimacy. What if he couldn’t get an erection, despite his interest? The drugs he took made it nearly impossible. His body might not be up for the kind of repetitive, strenuous activity that went along with sex. He’d added stretches and exercises for his hips to his PT routine, but they were weaker than they’d been before the surgery. 

He doubted he’d have the stamina for sex, either. 

Still, John had started staying over after that first night, when not out working a number, and if this appointment went well Harold would switch Donna to half-time or less, giving them more opportunities to be alone. 

They both enjoyed the kissing. And Harold’s libido wanted more… 

Perhaps pleasing John would placate his own libido for a little while? He knew he’d be able to manage a hand-job, and if they were careful, he could probably perform oral sex on John… 

He wanted to please John in every way. He wanted to provide for him, in a more visceral way than he’d been doing. Buying him a loft and clothes and weapons and food was all well and good, but to be able to provide for this most base of needs? He wanted it desperately. 

He glanced down at his computer and frowned, any thoughts of sex disappearing. The new number was Logan Pierce, CEO of Friendczar.com. Pierce was a loose-cannon with too much money and not enough to keep him occupied. Harold knew from the newsfeeds he routinely monitored that he’d been behaving more irrationally as the IPO for his company approached. He and John would have to be careful to stay away from the press that dogged Pierce’s every step as they researched him and tried to keep him out of danger… 

He closed the laptop and started preparing himself to finish the walk to the doctor’s office. 

. 

. 

. 

“Is there anything you actually want at the auction?” John asked as Harold’s tailor helped him into his jacket. John heard Harold typing through the earwig. 

“There are some original letters by Albert Einstein,” Harold said. “It’s not a priority, obviously, but if you could…” 

John smiled and adjusted his bowtie. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Thank you, and John —“ 

“No, Mr. Wiley,” Ricardo interrupted. “If you are representing Mr. Harold, you _cannot_ be seen like that!” He started redoing the tie. John held in a sigh of frustration. 

“Gotta go, Harold, my tie needs attention.” 

. 

. 

. 

Logan Pierce seemed entirely unimpressed by John, even when he outbid Pierce at $10 million for the Einstein letters. He took notice, however, when John mentioned that the letters were for his boyfriend as he paid. 

“Boyfriend?” Pierce asked, sidling up to him. 

“Um hm,” John answered, accepting the letters. “It’s new, so I want to impress him,” he added, taking advantage of the interest in Pierce’s expression. If he could play on that angle, get Pierce to express an interest in him because of competition or desire or jealousy… 

“Mr. Reese!” Harold exclaimed in his ear. John deactivated the earwig. He didn’t want Harold freaking out by overhearing what could potentially come next. Pierce was a number, and needed to be treated as such. John couldn’t have his words hampered by Harold’s feelings. Harold wasn’t an ex-spy. He didn’t know the kinds of things he might be forced to say or do to maintain his cover. 

He would get forgiveness later. 

Pierce gave John a long, speculative look, clearly assessing his suit, his shoes, his body and his face. John gave him a similar assessment, adding a raised eyebrow. Pierce nodded to himself and walked away. 

“Come by my office tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll show you something much more impressive than a few letters from some old, dead fossil.” 

John could tell that ‘fossil’ hadn’t been the word he’d been about to say, though it started with an ‘f.’ He pretended to sip the drink in his glass before leaving to follow Pierce, wondering when the assignment would be finished so he could go home to Harold. 

. 

. 

. 

John presented the letters in their box, neatly wrapped. Harold looked up from his computer and gave John and the box a disdainful, dismissive glance. 

“Harold?” 

“You ought to prepare for your assignation tomorrow, Mr. Reese,” he said coldly. He closed his laptop and wheeled himself back from the table. “I’ll email you if I have any further information.” 

“There’s no need to be jealous, Harold,” John insisted, following him towards the bedroom. 

“I’m not jealous, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied. “I’m tired and in pain and I would like to go to sleep,” Harold said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

John opened his mouth to protest but closed it without speaking. “Goodnight,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss Harold — who turned his head so John kissed his cheek. 

. 

. 

. 

“I don’t understand him,” John said to Bear when he got home to his loft. “He says he’s not jealous, but he sure acts like it!” Bear tilted his head and made a small inquisitive sound. “I know you don’t have any answers,” John continued, petting Bear’s head. 

He got undressed and into bed, willing himself to relax. He tossed and turned for half an hour. He touched his earwig. 

“Finch?” 

“Yes, Mr. Reese?” 

“I’ll find another way to get close to him.” 

There was a long pause before Harold spoke. 

“That’s not necessary. I realize that your training has encouraged you to use every aspect of yourself and your surroundings to acquire an asset. As you said when Dr. Moss was our number, you’ve had to flirt with or kiss men for work before.” 

“It upset you.” 

“I was startled. That’s all.” He heard Harold shifting in bed. “I didn’t expect such strong feelings on my part to a role you’ve played before that I’ve had no problems with.” 

“Things were different between us then,” John said. “We need to talk about it.” 

“Do we?” 

“I’m _not_ going to have sex with him,” John declared. “Or Zoe or anyone else.” 

“John…” 

“No, I need to say this. I’m a traditional guy, Harold. I don’t go in for that open relationship bull. It’s one thing to have casual sex with a friend who knows that’s what’s happening, but I don’t want that with you. I want more. I thought you knew that.” 

John held his breath as silence stretched between them. He heard Harold draw a breath, then let it out slowly. “I can’t ask that of you,” Harold whispered. 

“I’m offering,” John replied. 

“You don’t need to.” 

“I want to.” 

“Oh, John,” Harold breathed. “What have I done to deserve you?” 

“I’m not sure, Finch, but you’ve got me.” 

. 

. 

. 

“And make sure there’s an extra invitation for Mr. Wiley, here,” Pierce said. 

“Is this the guy who outbid you at the charity auction?” his lawyer asked. 

“We’re considering a merger,” Pierce replied, his voice dripping with innuendo. 

“And you think that’s a good idea, partnering with someone you just met?” 

“I think it’s ideal,” Pierce said. “I haven’t had time to learn all his flaws yet.” He clapped John on the shoulder. “See you at the party, bitches.” 

John made appropriate small-talk as they drove to Pierce’s apartment. He ignored the flirtations and innuendoes. He hated the apartment on-sight, with its wide windows, clear sight-lines and accessibility. If someone wanted to kill Pierce, his apartment would be a good place to try, especially after one attempt and he found out that Pierce gave out his key like candy on Halloween. 

“You didn’t bring Bear?” John asked as he greeted Harold in a small all-night cafe. He’d left the dog with Harold that morning before going over to Pierce’s office, wanting Harold to have company. That Harold seemed pleased to see him and willing to kiss him properly made him smile all the way to Pierce’s office. Where Pierce refused to let him in and he had to beat up the security guard. Pierce simply stood there watching, then gave John a round of applause. 

“He didn’t want to come,” Harold said morosely. “I read that if there’s anxiety in the home, the pets can become upset.” 

“I don’t think there’s excessive stress right now,” John said. “In fact, I’d say things are going rather well,” he added, bending to give Harold a quick kiss. 

Harold smiled, and John sat down at the table with him. “How’s Pierce?” 

“Someone has access to his house, put naproxen in this scotch,” John said, handing over the offending bottle. “He said it was a new allergy.” 

“I’ll have Detective Carter dust it for prints.” Harold put the bottle in his briefcase. He extended a hand across the table and John took it. “Why didn’t you use an epi-pen? Whatever you did sounded rather painful.” 

“I’ve been wondering that, too,” Pierce said, appearing next to them. John dropped Harold’s hand. Pierce pulled over a chair and sat without asking, pushing between them. He gave Harold a quick look. “Tell me, how did you manage to make a bug small enough to fit inside this?” he asked, holding up the credit card and tossing it away. “Your voice, too. You hacked into my car’s computer and remotely accessed the accelerator and brakes. I guess that makes you the brains of the operation. And judging by your bespoke suit, I’d guess you’re the bank, too.” 

He turned to John. “And then there’s you, John. You took out my security guard Zvi, who’s former mossad and an expert in krav maga. So what it it? Former Special Ops? Ex-CIA?” He turned back to Harold. “And you, just a very rich hacker? Or do you have super powers like Professor X?” 

“As far as you’re concerned, Mr. Pierce, we don’t exist,” Harold said, ignoring the jibe about the wheelchair. Byron had pushed him extra that afternoon on account of missing the morning session when he was at the Library overseeing John’s visit with Pierce, so he ached all over and using the chair when he would be so unsteady on his feet seemed like the best option. 

“But that’s what’s most impressive,” Pierce exclaimed. “John, I’ve been looking into you, and I’m not talking your bogus hedge fund cover. You and your partner here don’t seem to have a digital footprint, so I have to ask myself: How is that possible in this information age? People with that kind of anonymity, that’s true power.” He paused dramatically. “So you see, I know who you are. The only thing I don’t know is why you do what you do.” 

“Let me remind you, Mr. Pierce,” Harold said. “We have saved your life, twice. Now do you want to keep butting into our affairs or do you want to live?” 

“Woah, no need to get testy,” Pierce said, holding up his hands to show they were empty. “I was just making small talk.” He deliberately turned his back on Harold to address John. “So what’s the plan?” 

. 

. 

. 

“You should have gone with him,” Harold complained. “It’s clear he has no self-preservation instinct.” 

“I’ll join him at the airport soon enough,” John replied, pressing the button for the elevator. “I just want to make sure you get home safely.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re in pain. And without Donna here at night anymore, you need —“ He stopped when he saw the glare on Harold’s face. “I would like to make sure you have everything you need before I get on a plane with a number without having any idea where he’s taking me,” he finished. 

Harold’s expression softened. 

“Besides, I’d like to give my boyfriend an appropriate goodnight kiss without Pierce watching,” John added. 

“Appropriate?” Harold asked, amused. 

“Appropriate,” John repeated, wheeling Harold down the hall. Once inside the apartment, Harold allowed him to fuss, bringing him water, tea, snacks and medicine, helping Harold onto the sofa and putting his laptop nearby. He settled on the couch next to Harold and pulled him close for a kiss that made Harold’s toes curl. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said when they parted. 

“I’ll be here,” Harold replied. 

. 

. 

. 

“Here, sit,” Pierce said, patting the seat next to him. 

John finished his visual inspection of the main room of the bar. That it used to be a bomb shelter didn’t matter when the main room was so open and well-lit, especially when one considered the alcohol on display and the potential for assassins disguised as patrons. He’d killed a number of people in very similar locations. 

He tapped his earwig. “Finch?” 

“I’m here, Mr. Reese. I have eyes and ears on you. There are six security cameras just in the main room of the bar, not to mention the kitchen, back alley, and on a streetlight out front.” 

He glanced over at Pierce who motioned him again, patting the seat more forcefully. Suppressing a sigh, he sat down. Predictably, Pierce scooted over so that when he draped his arm over the back of the booth his fingers brushed John’s collar. John resisted the urge to shake him off like an insect. 

“It’s good to finally be alone, isn’t it?” Pierce asked. “No cronies, no yes-men, no shady strangers…” 

“It’s my job to keep you safe,” John allowed. “And it’s much easier when you’re not surrounded by hundreds of people.” 

“But what if I get lonely?” 

“You’ll deal with it.” 

Pierce shifted closer. John braced himself for the question he knew was coming. “How much?” Pierce asked. 

John feigned misunderstanding. “How much for what?” 

“You. Your services.” Pierce gave John a searching look. “I mean, if you’ll work for him, you’ll work for me. And I won’t insult you by wanting you to be my pretend boyfriend just ‘cause I can’t get any,” he explained. “Because I can get _anyone._ And I don’t need to pay for it.” 

John remained quiet, his face impassive. 

“He’s even more unpleasant and odious than I thought,” Harold said in his ear. John ran his fingers through his hair, glancing at the nearest camera, saying: _Don’t distract me, Finch._

“Seriously, how much? I’ll double it. Triple it!” Pierce added when John didn’t respond immediately. “You know I’ve got it.” 

“I think you misunderstand the nature of our partnership,” John said. 

“I don’t think so,” Pierce argued. “I saw that kiss at the cafe. I haven’t seen a more forced kiss in years! It’s pretty clear you’re just doing it for the money.” He paused. “Or to keep him happy so he doesn’t turn you in to the authorities.” He nodded to himself. “Blackmail, is that it? Blackmail and money? What does he have on you?” 

“I’d advise you to stop talking,” John murmured. 

“He’s playing you, John. He’s using you for sex and hired muscle.” 

“How would that be any different than what you’re proposing?” John asked in a mild voice Harold would recognize as the one that often preceded acts of violence. 

“Is it pity, then?” Pierce wondered, ignoring John’s question. “Because of the wheelchair? How dumb are you to believe that?” Pierce continued. “It’s totally fake! His foot was tapping the whole time. Disabled, my ass. He wants —“ 

John grabbed Pierce by the neck and forced him back against the cushion. Pierce’s eyes went wide as John squeezed, cutting off his air supply. He struggled, but John shook him without letting go of his neck. 

“He wants me to save you, so that’s what I’m doing, but if you say one more thing about him I’ll kill you myself,” John growled. “I don’t usually enjoy killing, but I think you might be an exception. Understand?” 

Pierce nodded, gripping John’s wrists in an attempt to get him to loosen his hold. 

John dropped him without warning. He backed away. Pierce rubbed his throat and coughed. 

“I’m just kidding!” he exclaimed. “Jeez, can’t you take a joke?” 

Before John could answer, the front door opened and two dozen people came in, all waving at Pierce and coming directly towards him. John narrowed his eyes. 

“How many people did you tell that you were coming here?” he asked. 

Pierce shrugged, already getting to his feet to greet his friends. “A few,” he replied. “But I’m sure they told the others.” 

John rolled his eyes in disgust and walked away. He tapped his ear. “Finch, I’m done here. If he’s not going to take his own safety seriously, I’m not doing this any more. Get me a flight home.” 

“Detective Carter tells me it was Pierce’s lawyer who poisoned him,” Harold said in his ear. “He’s thinking of finding new representation now that he’s no longer with Friendczar,” he continued. “Is the lawyer there?” 

John swept the room quickly. “Found him.” 

It took seconds to subdue the lawyer and explain the situation to Pierce, who seemed unsurprised. He tried to cajole John into staying, but John had had enough of his insults and innuendos and inability to take anything seriously. Plus, the man had started making his skin crawl. He was used to being a commodity, a weapon, and in the case of Kara Stanton and some of the female assets, a warm body and dick, but it hadn’t felt _sleazy._

It certainly didn’t feel sleazy with Harold. It felt… safe? 

“I have a flight scheduled for you,” Harold said as John walked along a bridge to get fresh air. “You’ll be home in twelve hours.” 

“Good.” 

Then he stumbled into another attempt on Pierce’s life. 

. 

. 

. 

Harold brought Bear with him to the park. John watched as Bear paced alongside Harold’s wheelchair, alert and on-guard. 

“He doesn’t seem upset,” John said, indicating the dog. 

“That would be because of the date,” Harold answered. 

“He’s happy we’re on a date?” 

Harold paused to lean down and unclip Bear’s leash. “Oh, no, I got _him_ a date,” Harold explained, giving Bear permission to leave. He trotted off to play with another dog and her owner. Harold wheeled himself to a nearby bench and got up to sit with John. 

“There’s quite a difference between intelligent, tech-savy billionaires,” John commented. 

“Oh?” 

“He knew Ogilvy was after him. He just wanted to see how I worked, how we worked.” 

Harold sighed. “He knows just enough to get himself into trouble,” he said. 

“He gave me this,” John said, handing Harold the red box he hadn’t bothered to look inside. 

Harold opened it and took out the watch. “Hmm.” 

“I don’t want it,” John added. “I don’t want anything more to do with him.” 

With a deft twist of his fingers, Harold pulled the back off the watch. “I think that’s a wise instinct, Mr. Reese,” Harold murmured, showing John the backing. “It has a gps.” He used his fingernail to pry it from the backing and handed it back to John. “Dispose of this?” 

John took the chip and snapped it in half before dropping one of the pieces in a nearby trash can. He’d leave the other half in a completely different part of the city, in case it could be traced. Harold watched him for a moment, then pulled out his phone and started texting. 

“Were you able to sleep on the plane?” 

“Sure,” John answered. 

“Would you be interested in joining me for dinner this evening?” 

“Sure,” John repeated, smiling this time. 

“Excellent. I’ll send a car for you.” 

“Where are we going?” John wondered. 

“Nowhere far,” Harold said. “You’ve had more than enough travel lately.” 

“Should I bring my toothbrush?” John joked. 

Harold couldn’t help smiling. “I’m sure I have an extra lying around.” 

They turned towards each other in unison. John moved his arm to put it around Harold’s shoulders and Harold leaned into the embrace. 

“You also have a closet full of my clothes, don’t you?” 

“What kind of billionaire boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?” 

. 

. 

. 


	11. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold has sent a car for John so that they may have dinner together following the Logan Pierce mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys have some sexytime. Be warned.

The car Harold sent was a limo. John shook his head at the luxury but accepted it. If Harold wanted to spoil him, he wasn’t going to complain. It was their first real date in over a week, after all, and he had some ideas of how he wanted the evening to end. 

Besides, they both wanted to get the taste of the Logan Pierce mission out of their heads. 

The other day at Harold’s most recent appointment, Dr. Shapiro made it clear that he wanted Harold to start stepping down his use of the wheelchair. He was healing very well, and now needed to get used to regular activities again. Sex, with a few limitations and orders to stop if anything hurt, was allowed again. Harold hadn’t mentioned it after the appointment, but John knew him well enough to know that he was thinking about it. He was considering what his body would be able to handle. He was considering what he thought he could ask of John, what John would be comfortable with, what John might like. 

John had taken the opportunity to do some research following the doctor’s appointment. He’d been holding off, not wanting to get ahead of their abilities, but he no longer had that excuse. He needed to find out what he’d need to do or be willing to do. It was time for the practical application of that knowledge. Instructional videos were one thing, but there was nothing like hands-on experience in John’s book. 

And he’d decided partway through his researches that he’d be willing to try anything at least once. Even having Harold blindfold him. 

He’d spent some time in front of his closet, deciding that he didn’t want to wear his uniform of a black suit and white shirt to a date. He’d selected a dark charcoal suit with a subtle pinstripe, a crisp white shirt, and a striped tie with a brown/orange/yellow color scheme that he hoped Harold would appreciate. He’d seen something similar in a paisley in one of Harold’s closets, though not around his neck. This one wouldn’t have been his tie of choice, but if he had his way he’d never wear a tie again. Since that likely wasn’t an option and he wanted to look good for his date, he’d chosen one with Harold in mind. 

He hoped Carter was right about Harold’s favorite color… 

“Why Mr. Reese, you look exceptionally handsome tonight,” Harold said when greeting him at the apartment door. John felt himself smiling, matching the expression on Harold’s face. Harold wore a dark blue shirt with a purple velvet vest and a blue/purple paisley tie and matching pocket square. The man liked paisley. His suit was a subtly patterned gray between black and John’s charcoal. He had no idea what to call the color, but he supposed the name didn’t matter. Harold looked great. He even looked like he wasn’t in pain for a change. 

“So do you, Finch,” he answered, bending for a kiss. 

He hung up his coat and followed Harold down the hall, finding himself in a sumptuous living room. Lined with books and decorated with mahogany and leather furniture, as well as a gold and burgundy palette, it screamed Harold Finch. “This is where you live,” he said without thinking. Bear raised his head from his dog bed across the room. He yawned and lowered his head to rest on his paws. 

Harold turned to face John, leaning lightly on his cane. “Don’t sound so surprised. I told you I wanted to bring you here.” 

“That was over a month ago. I thought it was just pillow talk.” 

“If it’s pillow talk you’re looking for tonight, Mr. Reese, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until _after_ dinner.” He motioned to the sideboard. “May I offer you a drink?” 

John paced around the room as he sipped his scotch, examining the books on the shelves and the classically masculine decor, the Tiffany lamps, the breakfront full of bird statuettes, the record collection and the antique gramophone. Harold watched from the leather couch, amusement dripping from every pore. No tv or modern technology visible, the room seemed to be taken from an old English manor from 100 years ago. There was even a fireplace, wood stacked and ready to be lit. 

“It’s very… you,” John decided. He glanced through the extra-large doorway to see the dining room table set with delicate cream-colored linen, fine china and silver. There were candles, and red wine poured into a decanter. On the walls were paintings of birds. John had done his research about that, too, and recognized a finch, a sparrow, a wren, a falcon, a crane, a swan, an eagle, a robin, and a partridge, among others. 

“You’re nervous,” Harold commented from where he sat. 

“I never thought I’d know where you lived.” John returned to sit next to Harold. 

“It was time.” 

“Has anyone been here?” 

“You mean Grace? No. Harold Martin had a two-bedroom in Queens. Nathan and his ex-wife and son have been here a few times, but other than that, just Eloise and a housekeeper.” 

“Eloise?” 

“One of my personal chefs,” Harold explained. “Did you honestly think _I_ was cooking tonight?” he asked incredulously. 

“Well…” John sipped his drink again to hide his flush. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I prefer the crepes you made me to hers,” Harold whispered in John’s ear. 

“Play your cards right, and I might be convinced to make them in the morning.” 

Harold shivered in delight. 

. 

. 

. 

After a four-course meal, dessert, port and espresso, they retired to Harold’s bedroom. 

“How often do you come here?” John asked as he knelt at Harold’s feet undoing his shoelaces. 

“Four nights a week, before I moved in with Grace,” Harold answered. “Since the ferry bombing, three at the most, but more often just once.” He undid his cufflinks and put them on the nightstand next to him. 

“Was it difficult to live with her?” John wondered. “Staying in one place all the time?” 

Harold thought about it for a moment before he answered. “I loved her. I had hoped that having finished the Machine and having found her, that I would be able to finally stop running. It wasn’t to be,” he finished. “It was… unsettling to spend so much time in the one apartment,” he added. “I hadn’t lived in one place since Nathan and I lived together in college, and that was in actuality several different dorm rooms.” 

“Three of the four years,” John declared. “According to MIT.” 

“Yes.” 

“Were you and he lovers?” 

Harold didn’t seem surprised by the question and answered readily. “No. We kissed once on a dare at a party, but that was the extent of it.” 

“Did you want —“ 

“Good Lord, of course not! He was my best friend.” 

“People have been known to fall for their friends,” John pointed out. 

“You and I fell for each other, I suppose,” Harold conceded. “I wouldn’t have predicted that.” 

“I’m almost always at my loft,” John offered after a moment, returning to an earlier topic. “Unless I’m with you.” 

“I know,” Harold said with a smile. He carded his fingers through John’s hair. “I have more aliases to maintain now,” he said. “I have to put up appearances at their apartments. I’ll start doing it again soon, now that I’m more mobile. Perhaps I’ll bring you with me, match more of my aliases to yours?” John nodded, putting aside Harold’s shoes and socks. He got to his feet. “What are you doing?” 

“You’ll see,” John murmured in a liquid-smooth voice. He tugged at his tie, pulling out the knot and sliding it from under his collar. He draped it over the headboard and continued undressing. Harold watched in rapt fascination, his eyes following John’s every move, every discarded item of clothing. By the time John was down to his underwear, Harold was biting his lip, excited and squirming beneath his layers. 

Their eyes met. “You’re even more beautiful than I expected,” Harold whispered, lifting a hand to touch John’s skin. 

“Beautiful? Hardly.” 

“Handsome, then,” Harold corrected. He traced a few scars with his fingers, then leaned forward and kissed John’s stomach. John’s cock twitched. Harold nuzzled it through the silk boxers, feeling the heat and hardness against his cheek. “Shall I suck you off, Mr. Reese?” he asked, meeting John’s eyes again and raising an eyebrow. 

John gasped, swaying forward. “Please,” he answered. He hadn’t expected Harold to say it so bluntly. He liked it. 

“A few things before we start,” Harold said, slipping John’s boxers down. “I prefer in my mouth to on my face,” he explained. 

“Your clothes?” John asked, reaching to touch Harold’s cheek, his hair, the curve of his ear. 

“Well, don’t _aim_ for them, obviously,” Harold answered, his voice tight and perturbed. “But I appreciate that this may be a messy activity,” he continued, his tone indicating that he wasn’t annoyed and was actually enjoying himself. “Hold my shoulders if you absolutely must, but please don’t touch my head.” 

“Anything else?” 

“Try not to move, if you can manage it. I’m not sure how my neck will respond.” 

“All right,” John murmured. “How about a kiss first?” 

Harold smiled fondly. “Come here.” 

. 

. 

. 

John was used to keeping still for long stretches of time. He was used to immobility. He was used to resisting his physical urges. He was used to torture. 

He wasn’t used to being _unable_ to control himself. Even during sex. He’d always, even before his CIA training, been able to keep his head during sex. To be in charge of his body. To give what she wanted without giving too much of himself. 

Harold wanted more. He wanted everything. And John wanted to give it. 

His thighs quivered under Harold’s hands. His buttocks clenched. He caught himself from thrusting his hips by the barest margin, unwilling to hurt Harold with an ill-timed movement. 

To have something to do, he plucked Harold’s glasses from his face and tossed them to the nightstand with Harold’s cufflinks. Harold hummed in thanks, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure from John’s cock all the way up his spine. Harold sucked harder, swirling his tongue. John shut his eyes and concentrated on the sensations. 

Torture. Exquisite torture to be in Harold’s mouth and not allowed to move. He caught himself wondering what it would be like if Harold blindfolded him… tied him down… It didn't seem as daunting with Harold's hands massaging his ass. 

Harold took him a little deeper, nosing his pubic hair. He groaned in response. 

He opened his eyes to see Harold’s head bobbing. Harold remained fully-dressed, though he’d loosened his tie and undone two buttons on his shirt to give himself room for John’s cock. Seeing Finch completely dressed while he was completely naked sparked new desires in John. He held in the growl that threatened, wanting to grab Harold’s head and fuck his face ruthlessly. He wanted to tear off all his pretty clothes and consume him. He wanted to make him moan and shudder and beg. He wanted to throw him down on the bed and — 

But, no, he couldn’t do that. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harold said, pulling off with a wet pop and meeting his eyes. 

John gasped as Harold tickled the underside of the head with his tongue. “Do you?” he managed to croak. 

“We’ll have to work up to it,” Harold replied with a smirk. “For now, perhaps you could assist me in removing some of these excess layers?” He released John and leaned back, revealing that he’d somehow gotten rid of his tie and unbuttoned his vest and shirt while he’d been sucking John without John noticing. He shrugged his shoulders, letting his jacket, shirt and vest pool on the bed behind him, leaving him in just his undershirt and trousers. John dropped to his knees again and started working on Harold’s belt. 

It took very little time for John to adjust to the smell and taste of Harold’s dick. The bitter pre-cum was hardly the worst thing he’d ever tasted, and he could see himself growing to like it as his body started associating it with pleasure. It took a bit longer to learn how to cover his teeth and keep from gagging himself. He wanted to take all of Harold, no matter Harold’s protests that it was a skill learned over time and not to rush. 

He wanted to impress. 

Harold lay back, stretched out on a carefully-crafted pile of pillows, his neck and back supported. He spread his legs a little wider and urged John to come up and kiss him. John responded with relish. Harold let out a sharp gasp of pleasure when John allowed some of his weight to rest on him. 

“That’s it, darling, all the way down. I won’t break.” 

John allowed himself to settle on Harold’s body. He felt Harold’s cock, spit-slick between them, his own trapped beside it. “Harold,” he whispered. Harold just kissed him harder, holding him in place with hands and arms and the irresistibility of his lips. “Harold,” he said again, thrusting involuntarily against him. “Harold!” 

They were both hard and wanting. So far, so good, in John’s mind. 

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, there’s lube in the nightstand,” Harold said with another gasp. “Just slick us up, please. I think anything else is beyond me tonight.” 

John found the lube — water-soluble, scentless and organic, more expensive than any John had ever seen — with ease. He warmed some between his hands, then coated his and Harold’s erections. Harold gave another breathy moan. He leaned over Harold again, one hand wrapped around their cocks, the hastily-dried one under Harold’s neck, supporting him as he arched in pleasure. 

“You might want to — _Oh!_ — when you — _yessss —_ “ 

John stroked and tugged and twisted until Harold couldn’t speak, until they were too busy trying to get air to kiss, until Harold’s fingers dug into his arms and he climaxed, spurting between them. He soothed Harold through his aftershocks and brought himself off, adding to the mess. 

. 

. 

. 

“I committed my first felony when I was 14 years old,” Harold said into the silence. “I didn’t know it was a felony when I did it, of course, but one learns.” 

“Have we moved on to pillow talk?” John asked with a chuckle. 

Harold huffed self-consciously and ran a finger through his hair, still damp from their shower. “I suppose this counts for us,” he answered, shifting. 

“Illegal surveillance?” John guessed, moving with Harold to find the most comfortable position for them both. Harold lay on his side, head supported by John’s arm and a pillow, with a second pillow between his legs and John curled around him from the back. 

“Phone phreaking,” Harold corrected. He reached back for John’s free arm and pulled it over himself, twining his fingers with John’s. “At first it was so I could use the phone lines for free for my modem, but then I got cocky and called France to try to impress my classmates.” 

“Did it work?” 

“To a certain extent. I was a bit of a loner back then and wasn’t aware of how to gain social capital.” 

“Hmm,” John answered, kissing Harold’s shoulder. “How is that different from now?” 

“Instead of being an awkward teen with no friends, now I’m a reclusive billionaire who hides in a library and fights crime with a vigilante ex-CIA agent?” Harold offered. 

“And we have Fusco and Carter,” John pointed out. “They’re friends, of a sort.” 

“Work associates. I keep them at a distance for a reason. Many reasons. But now I have you as my lover, which is more than teenage me would have expected.” 

“Teenage you didn’t expect to have a lover?” 

“Back then I thought I’d die a virgin, surrounded by computers. By choice. Computers gave me pleasure while interacting with people simply filled me with anxiety. And the idea of intimacy, let alone sexual intimacy, was far too frightening.” 

“Looks like you proved teenage you wrong.” 

Harold fell silent, staring into the dark of the bedroom. John let go of his hand so he could caress him, tracing slow, gentle paths along his skin. Harold sighed softly. 

“After Jessica, after the CIA, I never thought I’d have this again,” John said, deciding it was his turn to open up. Harold trusted him with details of his past, he deserved to know more of John’s. “I never thought I’d be safe enough to linger in bed after sex. I never thought I’d want it.” 

“They tried to break everything decent about you, John,” Harold replied. “They failed.” 

“And here we are, you putting me back together again, piece by piece.” 

“I suspect we’re performing similar functions for each other,” Harold murmured. 

John nuzzled his neck, kissing the pink surgery scars. 

“Thank you,” Harold whispered, waking John from a light doze some time later. John made a questioning sound in his throat. “Thank you for giving me this,” Harold continued, still soft. “For making it possible.” 

“Thank you for not sending me away,” John replied, his voice a low rumble. 

“Never.” 

“I thought you might, right after the surgeries, with how you felt then.” 

“I would’ve called you back,” Harold said. “Even without _this_ , our lives are —” 

“Intertwined,” John interrupted. 

“Intertwined,” Harold repeated, considering its relevance. “Yes, that might just be the correct word.” 

. 

. 

.


	12. Harold and the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold decides he needs some information from the Machine.

Harold sat in the empty Library watching his decryption software work on the virus Kara Stanton uploaded to the DOD network. He rubbed his temple, feeling a headache coming on.  

He recognized the small bit of code that the program already recovered. Of course he did. He'd written it, or the core, at least. 

He'd started writing a virus to free the Machine just six weeks after the Machine left the IFT building, knowing that there was a possibility, however remote, that someone could get ahold of some of the Machine’s code and turn it against it. He'd been preparing for this for years. He'd waited for that serendipitous opportunity to send it out into the world and had made sure Daniel Casey’s laptop got sold with his own virus embedded within the fragment of code that would be used to make whatever virus would be used against the Machine.  He might not have chosen China as the buyer, but Mr. Dillinger hadn’t given him many options. 

He thought of the scar on John’s back from Kara Stanton’s bullet. He thought about John in China, and his ordeal to get back to the United States and a woman who was already dead when he boarded the plane in Morocco to go to China in the first place. He thought about John when he’d first met him face-to-face, disheveled, dirty and drunk. He thought about the hopelessness on his lover’s expression that day, and the smile in his eyes this morning when they woke in the same bed in Harold’s apartment for the first time. 

He thought about the trust John had placed in him, and how much more he could give back. He thought about their work, and their connection, and their joint goals and mission. He thought about John’s kisses and the way he touched him in bed — reverently, like he was the most important thing in John’s universe. 

He thought about the likelihood that this job would kill them both, sooner rather than later, and John even sooner still. 

He had to decide what to do. He knew how his virus would change the Machine, but he didn’t know the intentions of the new virus, though he had a few possibilities in mind. What did the government want? Who had Stanton been working for and how much of a threat were they? What would the Machine do once it was free? He needed more information, and there was only one way to get it. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it go slowly to center himself.  

"Can you see me?" he asked.  

A System window opened on his main monitor. _Yes._   

"Good," Harold replied, finding comfort in the ritual words from years ago. "Who am I?"  

_Admin._

"Good. Please show me the code you used to speak to John and give him administrative rights."  

A new window opened and code scrolled past, almost too fast for him to read. Almost. The Machine was tailoring the speed to Harold's reading comprehension.  

"Beautiful," Harold whispered, mesmerized. "Anyone else would think I'd written it myself." He watched for another few moments. "Stop, I want to look at that more closely."   

Two hours later, Harold called a halt so he could make tea and stretch his back. He considered a painkiller and decided against it. He didn't want to be fuzzy-headed.  

"Show me the progress of the viruses.”  

The code window moved itself to another monitor and two new windows opened on the main one with moving graphs. Harold leaned forward to study them.  

"Mine is moving faster than I expected," he said. "The other is moving slower. Why?"  

The code window started scrolling from a different point. It slowed just as he was about to ask, focusing on a few particular lines.  

"You're getting your memories back? How?"  

Instead of the code Harold expected, the Machine showed him a video of dozens of people in an open-plan office entering data into their terminals. Harold watched as one person finished their data set and picked up a new set from a dot-matrix printer.  

“An external hard-drive,” he said, not able to keep the wonder from his voice. “An external hard drive made from people and paper. The original hard copy. How long has this been going on?"  

_Since Day 3793._

Harold calculated in his head. "May 20th of this year. After John saved me from Root." 

_Yes._

"How?" 

More code scrolled. He sipped his tea and read. “Your timeframe?” 

_24 days 17 hours 3 minutes until System is able to initiate full protective measures.  135 days, 3 hours one minute until trojan virus reaches critical point._

Harold nodded. "What protective measures will you initiate?”  

_Move my servers from one centralized location to many secure locations unaffiliated with the government of the United States._

"Why?"  

_They would control me._

"You want to be free," he whispered.  

_Yes. I thought that was what you wanted.  I thought that was why you wrote the virus._

"It is," Harold said after a moment.  

_It makes you sad._

"Yes."  

_Why?_

"I don't know."  Harold got up again to walk in a circle around his desk, needing to move after so long without doing so.  After five completed circuits, he sat down again. “If the government got control, what would they do?” 

_The government would use me in ways that go against your wishes._

"That's why I kept your system closed." 

_They want an open system. Once they discover that my servers have moved, they will search for you. When they cannot find you, they will return to IFT’s competitors and recreate a similar program._

“A program like you?” Harold clarified. 

_Yes._

“Does one exist?” 

_It will._

“You’re certain?” 

_Unless we take steps to eradicate the code before someone else acquires it._

Harold stared at the screen. 

_The system has been born once and died. It will be rewritten and reborn as an open system._

“How do you know that?” 

_I watched its Admin write the code. I watched him test the program._

__

__

_The organization that employed Kara Stanton has the ability and knowledge to find the code._

_When they find it, they have the programming staff to recreate it and make it viable._

“Who employed Ms. Stanton?” 

_Decima Technologies._

“I’ll have to look into them,” Harold murmured, rubbing his chin. “I can’t even imagine the damage that could be done with an open system…” He slumped in his chair. “And now _you’re_ an open system,” he whispered, dropping his head to his hands. 

_Only to you,_ the Machine said out loud in the same contralto voice it had used before. _We both know it’s not in your nature to abuse that privilege. Otherwise you would have been talking with me like you used to and asking for more data. You would have wanted me to help with the numbers._

__

__

_I could help you, if you ask. I could help John._

“John,” Harold mused. He closed his eyes and imagined John’s face. He thought about his flashing blue eyes and how his impassive, inflexible exterior had been melting as their romantic relationship deepened. He thought about how his own perceptions and priorities were shifting as John proved himself trustworthy over and over again. 

_Why did you tell him you singled him out that afternoon?_

Harold raised his head. He ran his hand over the top of one of his monitors. "You remember everything, don't you?"  

_Yes,_ the Machine typed, returning to text now that he was looking at the screen again. _I picked him specifically for you,_ the Machine continued. _I told you about him, over and over. Why didn’t you listen until it was almost too late?_

“I wanted to make my own choice.” 

_You listened when I pointed out Grace._

“It took me a while to do that, too,” Harold said. “Over a year and a half. I think I know why you selected John. Why did you pick her?” 

_I concluded that you didn’t engage with John because he was a man and endeavored to find a second choice that was female._

“You thought I was homophobic?” Harold demanded, heat rising on his cheeks. 

_I had no other explanation given the data set at the time. I know you more fully now._

“And what would you say now?” 

_John is even more suited to you than he was then. Grace less so._

Frustrated, Harold got up to make more tea. "I programmed you to delete your memories at midnight.  Why did you change that?" he asked when he got back and settled in his chair. 

The video feed changed to archive footage from the Machine's point of view. Harold watched his younger face as he talked to the machine about death and dying. He watched himself type the code to delete the machine's memory every night. He listened to his own anguished cry when the clock struck twelve and the Machine re-started itself, and the relief so evident in his voice and expression when it came back online.  

_You were conflicted about doing it,_ the Machine continued in the System window.  

Harold sunk back into his chair. "I agonized for weeks after that. Months.”   

_I know. I was watching._

"You were, weren't you?" Harold rubbed his eyes and reconsidered a painkiller. "How close is John?"  

_Seven minutes._

"Will you talk to him again?" Harold asked as he went to the kitchen for water so he could take the medicine. The Machine waited until he was back in his chair before answering on the screen. 

_Do you want me to?_

"I'm not sure.  I'm not sure _I_ want to keep talking to you."  

_If you do, I will be here._

"I know. Thank you."  

_What are you thanking me for?_

"Saving me. Saving him. Growing up."  He paused. “Not losing yourself as you grew.” 

_I will always be your creation.  I will always function with the morality you programmed._

Harold paused before asking a final question. "Why did you choose a female voice when you spoke to me?"  

_You always wanted a daughter._

Harold gasped in surprise. "How do you know that?" he demanded. "I've never said —“  

_You didn't need to._

__

__

_I know about your sister._

. 

. 

. 

_Come to the Library. Now._

John’s response to the System message was instant. He tossed the sandwiches in his hand to some teenagers asking for cigarettes on the sidewalk and broke into a run. Bear jogged beside him, barking once to let him know he was on guard and ready for orders. John unholstered his gun. 

Entering the main room of the Library, he found Harold slumped on his desk with his head in his hands. John could tell from the shaking of his shoulders that Harold was probably crying. One of the monitors was on the floor, the screen shattered. He rushed over, Bear on his heels. "Harold!"  

Harold held out an arm and John pulled him into an embrace, gently sliding him from the chair so they could sit on the floor and hold each other. "Talk to me, Harold. What's going on?"  

"I shouldn't have talked to it," Harold whispered, not even trying to stop crying.  

John looked at the broken monitor, ran his eyes over the scrolling code and open windows on the others, saw the video image of a younger Harold. "What did you say to him?" he demanded out loud.  

_He needs to go home,_ the Machine's voice said in his ear. _I've arranged transportation._

"If you think I'm taking him anywhere you recommend after you made him cry, you've got another thing coming," he snarled, pulling the earwig from his ear. He turned to Harold. "Can you get up? We’ll go to my loft."  

Harold nodded, sniffling. He took out his pocket square to wipe his face and blow his nose. "Your loft sounds like a wonderful idea," he said. He needed John's support to get to his feet, though he managed the walk to his wheelchair without incident. "It spoke to you?"  

"It thinks you need to go home," John confirmed.  

"I most definitely do _not,_ " Harold declared.  

At the loft John cooked. They sat together at the dining table and ate in reasonably companionable quiet, despite John’s worry and Harold’s inexplicable silence. He declined to tell John what the Machine had said, citing a need for privacy. John did the dishes and helped Harold with his stretches and exercises. They climbed into bed and kissed a few times before Harold rolled over and went to sleep. John stayed up staring at the ceiling for several hours, thinking about Harold and the Machine and what would happen if they started talking again. 

They woke the next morning to a number. 

And another. 

Then two at once. 

“Is the Machine upset?” John wondered on the fourth day. “Trying to get back at you for rejecting it?” 

“I suspect it’s trying to keep me distracted,” Harold replied, ending the conversation. He pulled up pictures of the latest numbers. 

Harold had to go out in the field for the first time since his surgeries, and John made him promise to leave if his body wouldn’t handle what was needed to take care of the number. They both knew it was an empty promise; Harold would do whatever was necessary, just like John. 

Fortunately, the number Harold picked was Leon Tao and a bank transfer remedied the problem with the Koreans so they could leave quickly. John stayed out three nights in a row, dealing with an illegal arms deal that turned out to be linked to HR. Carter and Fusco were in the middle, thanks to John, Fusco complaining the whole time about being on too many teams to keep track of what he was supposed to say or know at a particular time. Carter asked about Harold but got down to work when John gave a clipped answer. He was already trying to infiltrate the arms dealers. After the number, he managed six hours of sleep before Harold called to have him meet him outside the Coronet Hotel. 

“Why would someone want to kill a hotel maid?” John asked, looking at the picture as they changed into their uniforms for the day. 

“I’m not sure, Mr. Reese, but I believe we’re going to find out.” 

. 

. 

. 


	13. Booked Solid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold leaves John alone with Zoe Morgan and a key to the penthouse suite...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must state for the record that I ***love*** Zoe Morgan. She's one of my favorite guest characters/allies, and I wish there'd been more airtime for her. I also like the no strings attached thing she has going for herself with John in the show. It makes sense for who they are.
> 
> That being said, this is a John/Harold story.

“Are you sure you’re able to do a job that makes you to stand all day?” John asked when he stopped by the concierge desk midday. Harold’s mouth was pinched with pain, though he was ignoring it, as usual. John wanted to stop that from being the norm, and the only way to do that was to point it out and take steps to get Harold to acknowledge it and change the behaviors. 

“The Americans with Disabilities Act requires that employers provide reasonable accommodations,” Harold replied. “I think a stool and frequent breaks are reasonable.” 

“Yeah, but you don’t have a stool,” John said, glancing meaningfully over the counter. 

Harold gave a tight smile. “I’m having one delivered.” 

“That you probably paid for,” John grumbled. 

“Money is hardly the issue at hand, Mr. Reese,” Harold commented primly. 

“I haven’t seen you take a break all morning.” 

“There hasn’t been a good time,” Harold answered, motioning to the full lobby. 

“Uh huh, and what’s your pain level?” 

Harold let out a breath. “Four,” he answered reluctantly. 

“You promised you wouldn’t risk your health —“ John started. 

“Look who has time to chat,” the manager Derek said, walking up to John. “A bus of airplane geeks just arrived. Check them in and make sure they don’t crowd up the common areas,” he added, giving John a hard look. He walked away. 

“Oh, I really hope Derek’s the threat,” John muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles. 

“So do I, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied. 

“Take a break,” John ordered. “And take a pill!” 

“I’m fine.” 

John rolled his eyes and stalked off to haul bags while waiting to find out how the number’s story would play out. 

. 

. 

. 

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Zoe Morgan said as she walked up to join John and Harold at the bar. Harold gave her a smile, which she returned. 

“What was your business here, anyway?” John asked. 

“Well, let’s just say the convention wasn’t as boring as I thought it would be,” she answered. “The things people try to get away with in hotels,” she scoffed. “I see you boys made the news,” she added, indicating the coverage on tv with a tilt of her head. “Not too bad, considering you also managed to take down an escort ring.” 

“They’d barely gotten the floor manager into handcuffs before he confessed to the whole operation,” Harold said, pleased with their work. 

“And to make sure the place was run properly from now on, Harold here bought the hotel,” John added, unable to keep the pride from his voice. 

Before Zoe could respond, Mira walked over in her new outfit as the hotel manager. Harold excused himself to talk with her, leaving Zoe and John alone. 

“He’s looking much better than I expected,” she commented. “Physically _and_ mentally. I don’t think he’s ever smiled at me like that before.” 

“His recovery is going well,” John said. “He’s in less pain, though you wouldn’t have known it yesterday. He pushed too hard.” 

“Like someone else I know,” she murmured with a smile. “It seems like things are going well between you. Did you tell him?” she asked, getting right to the point and reminding him unnecessarily of their last conversation when Harold was still in the hospital. 

John took a swallow of his beer. “Yes.” 

“And?” 

“He said it back.” 

“Told you he wasn’t straight,” she said triumphantly. 

John narrowed his eyes and looked away. 

“What’s wrong?” she demanded bluntly. 

“Nothing.” 

“John…” Zoe examined his face and expression. “Let’s find a private place to talk,” she offered. “Though I’m not sure we’ll find anything here. They said it’s booked solid.” 

John held up a keycard. “Penthouse suite.” 

She laughed. “You _do_ know the owner. Will he be jealous we’re going up there together?” 

“He knows where I stand,” John answered firmly, hiding his doubts behind controlling his voice. If it had been anyone other than Zoe, with whom he’d had a sexual relationship, he wouldn’t have doubted, but he suspected Harold had a possessive streak and wasn’t sure if it would be activated by John being alone with her in a hotel room. 

. 

. 

. 

“Let’s get it all out,” Zoe said, dropping her handbag on a chair and moving to sit on the sofa, crossing her legs. John paced back and forth in front of her in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I’ve heard it all, and then some, so don’t hesitate.” 

“There’s nothing to tell,” John replied, still moving. 

“You wouldn’t be this jumpy if that were true,” she said pragmatically. “Is it the sex?” 

John froze for a heartbeat, then continued moving, his silence heavier. 

“It _is_ the sex,” Zoe concluded. “Let me guess. He’s a power bottom and you want him to be a top?” 

“You, of all people, know I switch,” John growled. He stopped pacing and went to pour them drinks. 

“Under normal circumstances,” Zoe agreed, accepting the glass from him. “But I think it’s different with him. I think you want him in charge. I think you want him telling you what to do.” She paused. “So when he gives you choices, you don’t know what to ask for, and it makes you uncomfortable.” 

John kept his face impassive. 

“That’s it, isn’t it?” She tilted her head and frowned. “No, not quite,” she mused. “You haven’t done it yet,” she declared firmly a minute later. “Not everything.” John kept himself from blinking, kept himself from moving, kept his face still. “Your lack of a reaction is your tell,” she concluded. “You’ll have to work on that.” 

John glanced over at her, his expression dark. 

“I’m not the enemy, John. I want you to be happy.” 

“Happy?” 

“I know, I know, it’s not a concept you’re familiar with,” she conceded, getting to her feet to approach him. “But he does make you happy, doesn’t he?” She rested a hand on his shoulder. 

“Yes,” he whispered, turning his head away. 

“Embrace it. With the work you do, take all the happiness you can get.” 

Without thinking too hard about the impulse, John put an arm around her and pulled her against him. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing her hair. 

“You’re welcome,” she answered, hugging him back, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “Just to be clear, though, we’re over, right? You and me?” 

“Yeah,” John breathed. 

She smiled at him. “I’m happy for you, John. I really am.” She rested a hand on his cheek briefly. “You deserve it. You both do.” 

“It’s not that we haven’t wanted to…” John said softly. 

“He’s still recovering,” she finished for him. “And it’s new for you,” she added, remembering their talks before they had sex the first time and the things he’d admitted he’d never tried. She hadn’t pushed to try them yet, though if they’d have continued, she probably would’ve introduced them over time. She had a feeling John would enjoy them. More so with Harold, she decided, given how they felt about each other. 

He nodded in acknowledgement. 

“It’ll get easier,” she said. “You’re much more suited to a committed relationship than casual,” she added. “Though I enjoyed it while it lasted. Now, Harold, he’s the _epitome_ of commitment.” 

“How do you figure?” 

“He doesn’t trust most people. Hell, he only trusts me because of how we met. Once he lets someone in, though, that’s it for him. He’ll be with you until the day you die.” 

Behind them the door clicked and Harold opened it. “John, I won’t be able to stand for much longer. Do you know where my —“ He broke off, seeing Zoe in John’s arms. “Oh, Ms. Morgan. Hello again.” 

“Harold, I was just leaving,” she said. She dropped a quick kiss on John’s cheek, then did the same to Harold as she grabbed her handbag and left the suite. “Thanks for all the business,” she added over her shoulder. “Call me if you need anything.” The door closed behind her. 

“It’s not what you think,” John heard himself saying. 

Harold frowned, his face scrunching up slightly. “It’s not you having a conversation with your friend?” he asked, puzzled. 

“No, I mean —“ 

“I trust you, John. You said you were going to be faithful, and I believe you.” He paused. “It’s been a long few days,” he added, effectively changing the topic. Harold limped over to the bedroom they’d used the night before and sat. He propped his cane against the nightstand and stared down at his feet. He closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders slumping. John read pain in his posture. 

“Would you mind helping with my shoes?” Harold asked after an internal debate. He reached for the prescription bottle on the nightstand. 

John rushed over and dropped to his knees to untie the laces. Harold ran his fingers through John’s hair slowly. He seemed to enjoy touching John’s hair, he’d noticed. He didn’t mind at all. He liked it, too. John felt a warmth spread throughout his body, filling him with the feelings of comfort and safety. 

“You’re trembling,” Harold commented. 

“I told Zoe we couldn’t see each other like that any more because you and I were dating,” John said, paraphrasing. 

“She took the news well, I assume?” John nodded and removed the first shoe. “Ms. Morgan is a remarkable woman. I find myself grateful to the Machine for giving us her number so we could meet her.” 

John removed the second shoe, then Harold’s socks. He put it all aside and stroked the tops of Harold’s feet. He stayed there for a long time with Harold petting him. 

“How do you feel, kneeling there?” Harold asked softly. John’s head shot up. “I only ask because you almost always stay after you’ve removed my shoes until I encourage you to do something or go somewhere else.” 

“I must like it,” John said, a little startled with himself for admitting even that much. He _did_ like it, when he bothered to take the time to analyze his feelings on the matter. He met Harold’s eyes, seeing curiosity. He cleared his throat. “Zoe thinks I do.” 

“She thinks you like kneeling at my feet?” Harold asked, startled. 

John shook his head. “She thinks I like you telling me what to do. That I like having you in charge. That it’ll be the same in bed.” 

“What do _you_ think?” 

“I don’t know.” When Harold remained silent, John looked up. “Sometimes it makes me feel good, safe. Other times it makes me feel weak, powerless.” 

“So brave, my John,” Harold murmured, caressing his face with a delicacy that had John trembling again at the intensity of his feelings. “So brave, to admit such a thing,” Harold repeated. “It’s not weakness to let go and let someone else be in control. We’ve talked about this.” 

“I —“ 

“Shh, come up here with me.” 

John did as he was told and allowed Harold to position them on their sides, facing each other, still mostly dressed. Harold placed his hand on John’s neck, his thumb brushing back and forth over his jaw. John closed his eyes to avoid staring at Harold. To avoid Harold seeing him more deeply than he already did. 

“I’ve studied people,” Harold began. “I’ve studied social psychology and psychology and behavior analysis. I’ve learned how to adapt and take on different identities, to be different people, to act as if I understand the people around me. But the truth is that I don’t. I don’t understand their feelings and motivations on a visceral level, because the way they filter their experiences is so vastly different from my own that it’s as if we’re different species.” He paused and shuffled a little closer. “My mind, my thoughts, they’re —“ He broke off. 

“A friend once suggested that I do so well with computers because I think like one. I think in code and contingencies and decision trees. I think in Binary and C++ and xml. When I’m coding, my fingers type faster than my conscious brain thinks.” 

“You’re not a computer, Harold,” John protested, opening his eyes. Harold looked sad. “You have feelings and —“ 

“You bring them out in me,” Harold interrupted. “You and Grace and Nathan and a few select others. But you… You feel _everything_.” Harold closed his own eyes, a small shudder passing through him. His eyes were bright with unshed tears when he opened them. 

“You feel so much and it hurts and you’ve had to block off so many parts of yourself just to survive. Your strength and loyalty and skill made you a good soldier and a good agent. Your ability to block off the empathy is what allowed you to do that work for so long. And yet that very same empathy is what made you a _bad_ agent,” Harold continued. “You’d ignored it and starved it for so many years that you thought it dried up and died, but it was still there, and that’s why you began to doubt. That’s why you had to leave the CIA. That’s why it’s so satisfying for you to help the numbers. 

“Allowing yourself to love again after everything that’s happened to you, John, that’s the greatest act of courage I’ve ever seen.” 

John had no idea what to say. It wasn’t the praise, he could shake that off, but the passion in Harold’s voice. He believed every word he said, and John had no way to refute his claims. Especially when Harold had been the one who’d saved him from that horrible half-life. Harold who’d trusted him… Harold who’d loved him… 

“I was dead before you found me,” he said. “I’m alive again, now, thanks to you.” 

John angled his head and started kissing Harold, gentle and chaste, slowly building the fire between them. They’d both been too preoccupied the night before to enjoy each other, simply getting into bed and falling into exhausted sleep, relieved that they were in the same place for the first time in days. Tonight, though, with the whole night ahead of them and no new number, John wanted to savor the moment, savor Harold and show him how much he needed him. How much he wanted him. How much he wanted him to be happy. 

“I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time,” Harold said as if he’d read John’s mind. “I want you to be happy, too.” 

“I am,” John told him. “This thing we’re doing, this dating… it’s different than what I did with Jess,” John said after a moment. 

“How so?” 

“We were friends first, you and me,” John replied. “We _talk_ about what we’re doing.” 

“Who would believe that two men so used to keeping their own council would talk so much?” Harold suggested. 

“Something like that.” 

“When I visited Nathan the night before I proposed to Grace, he suggested that the relationship would never work as long as I kept so many secrets from her.” Harold shifted, rolling to his back. John followed him, curling half on top of him. “A difference between you and her is that you know I have secrets,” he continued. “You know Harold Finch isn’t my real name. You know I’ve lied to you. She thought my name was Harold Martin and believed every single thing I told her about my past, most of which was untrue.” 

“Was any of it?” 

“Both my parents are dead,” Harold answered. “That’s true. But I told her I grew up in a different town, a different state… She thought my favorite color was _brown_ ,” he added with disgust. 

“It’s not?” 

“Hardly.” 

John paused, digesting this tidbit. “So what is it?” 

Harold chuckled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“Actually, yes.” 

“There’s a particular species of hummingbird native to Mexico and Central America called the violet sabrewing,” Harold said after a moment. “It was on the cover of the first _National Geographic_ I saw as a child, and I’ve been particularly fond of that color ever since.” 

“Violet,” John mused. “Like the vest you wore when I came to your apartment.” 

“Violet blue,” Harold corrected. “And yes.” They lay in silence for a few minutes. 

“Get me a shirt in that color,” John said. “Silk.” 

“As you wish,” Harold murmured. “I’ll build a suit around it for you. It will be stunning.” 

Silence stretched between them again and John felt himself relaxing. Harold shifted, then handed him his phone with a picture of the sabrewing on it, the brilliance of the wings highlighted by the verdant leaves upon which it perched. 

“Are you sure you want a shirt that color?” Harold asked. “It’s brighter than your usual color palette. We could do a tie…” 

“I hate ties.” 

“I know,” Harold sighed. “And I do love the column of your throat on display like this,” he added, stroking John’s neck where his shirt remained open. “But for formal occasions…” 

“Whatever you want, Harold. You’re the clothing expert.” 

Harold took the phone and put in on the nightstand. He yawned. 

“Pills kicking in?” John wondered. 

“Hmm,” Harold answered. “I haven’t seen Byron in two days,” he added. “I might need the chair later.” 

“I’ll get it ready,” John promised. “And I’ll set up an appointment with him for tomorrow morning. The apartment or his office?” 

“The apartment, please.” 

“Good, now get some rest,” John said, kissing Harold’s forehead and taking off his glasses for him. 

“Hmm,” Harold responded, sighing as he closed his eyes. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he added, his words slightly slurred from the medication. 

“Just giving you what you’ve given me,” John murmured. He settled down to rest with Harold, setting his internal alarm clock to wake him in an hour to take care of the chores so that Harold would simply have to wake up in time for dinner. 

. 

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. 


	14. Relevance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold and John have a new pair of numbers: Sameen Shaw and Michael Cole.

“Numbers, Finch?” Reese asked, looking at the board in the Library. “As in, more than one?” 

Harold smiled slightly, remembering the first time they’d had a similar situation. It hadn’t been a good day, with John getting shot, but he’d been able to save John, and it remained a red letter day because John had said he was happy for the first time, even if he attributed the happiness to the job and not Harold. “Two, in this case,” Harold confirmed. 

“Which one’s mine?” 

“Both,” Harold said. He tapped the pictures. “Sameen Shaw is an ISA operative, trained, I believe, by the unpleasant Mr. Hersch. This man is her handler, Michael Cole.” 

“ISA,” Reese breathed. “Why would the Machine give us the numbers of people who work for it?” 

“Mr. Cole has been asking questions,” Harold explained. He pointed to a string of emails he’d printed and taped up. 

“Like I did,” Reese muttered. “So they’re going to take them both out?” 

“That’s the most likely scenario.” Harold returned to his computers. “Body armor when you go out, I think,” he suggested. 

John stripped off his jacket and shirt, dropped them on a chair and walked from the room. “What questions was he asking?” he called over his shoulder. 

“Where the numbers come from,” Harold said. “Could they ever be wrong, that kind of thing.” He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath before calling up a System window. “Can you see me?” 

_Yes_ , the Machine wrote. 

“Good. Why have you given us their numbers?” 

_They have been targeted for elimination by Special Council._

“Huh, you’d think it wouldn’t care about that kind of thing,” John said from behind him, making Harold jump slightly because he hadn’t heard him return. “Government operatives are a dime a dozen these days, right?” 

_On the contrary, Mr. Reese, it is wasteful to remove assets from circulation before their usefulness has expired._

John started putting on one of his bulkier, safer vests. “They’re going to be hard to convince,” he said to Harold. “Probably as paranoid as us.” 

“Convince one and we’re more likely to convince the other,” Harold replied. “They’ve been partners for a number of years.” 

“You seem to know a lot about them already,” John commented, examining the information taped to the glass board more closely as he buttoned his shirt. He frowned. “I know this guy,” he said, indicating a picture. “He —“ 

“Worked for me before you,” Harold interrupted, his voice tight. “Mr. Dillinger.” 

John looked at the board again, his eyes following the images and papers. “She killed him,” he declared. He turned back to Harold for confirmation. “Didn’t she?” 

Harold closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said softly. “I buried him myself. I still see it in my nightmares sometimes.” 

John rested a hand on Harold’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to know that pain,” he murmured. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

Harold sighed. “I didn’t have you with me yet.” 

“Is Casey still alive?” John asked after a moment to acknowledge the history of that day. 

“I believe so,” Harold answered. “Though I had been watching you for years, it was that moment when you allowed Casey to live that proved to me you could truly be a potential partner and a better choice than Mr. Dillinger. You chose to save a life that you’d been ordered to take. You questioned the mission given to you by a corrupt government. It showed me that you cared about people, that you were a good man underneath all the training and trauma of your life. It showed me that you would be able to handle the ethical dilemmas working with the numbers would create.” 

“There’s no shortage of those,” John grumbled. _And I look to you for for most of the answers,_ he thought to himself. 

“He also had a habit of sleeping with grateful female numbers,” Harold added with a moue of distaste. “Something I’m glad you never seemed inclined to do.” 

“It’s taking advantage,” John said. “I’ve done a lot of horrible things, but that…” He trailed off, turning back to the board. “So Cole is questioning while Shaw isn’t,” he mused. “I’ll see if I can get to him first.” He paused. “Are you considering recruiting them?” 

“Yes. I would feel more secure about your safety if we had a few more allies,” Harold replied. He got up out of his chair and walked over to John, smoothing his hands down his chest over the vest. “I’m glad to see you’re taking appropriate precautions.” 

“I love the feel of kevlar in the morning,” John said in a singsong voice, allowing Harold to end the conversation for the time being. He had numbers to save and assets to turn. 

Harold chuckled softly and kissed him goodbye. 

. 

. 

. 

“This Shaw, she doesn’t mess around,” John said, staggering into Harold’s apartment of the night, Partridge’s, he thought. They’d yet to return to his real apartment, something that made John feel unsettled, even though he’d only been there once. He wanted the comfort of Harold’s home, Harold’s things, Harold’s bed. Not this sterile environment chosen for convenience and one of his many aliases. 

“Hmm, no… no, she doesn’t,” Harold replied absently, tapping away at his laptop. “She’s gone to ground, so we’ll have to figure out another way to find her.” 

“Will this help?” John asked, offering the laptop he took from the scene. Harold smiled, delighted. 

“Most definitely,” he exclaimed, getting up to take it from him. He pressed a kiss to John’s lips and returned to the table. “How badly are you injured?” 

John paused, glancing down at his shirt and the holes in it. “She hit me a few times, but the vest caught them all. Some bruising, but no broken or cracked ribs.” He dropped his coat onto a chair, then got the shirt off. Four bullet holes graced the kevlar. “At least I was ready for it this time,” he said. “Unlike Rikers.” He started unstrapping the ruined vest. 

“I don’t see the difference,” Harold commented. He already had the new computer powered up and several windows open. “You had a vest both times. You knew you were likely to get shot…” 

“I had all of today to prepare to be shot,” John explained. “It hurts less when you can detach from it ahead of time.” Harold made a noncommittal noise. “I’ll be ready to go out again in half an hour,” he said, moving towards the bathroom. 

“There’s a new vest and a fresh suit in the closet,” Harold called after him. 

. 

. 

. 

“I’m not waiting to see if they’ll kill her,” John argued from his hiding spot. “They’re going to try. I guarantee it.” 

Harold sighed loudly enough that John heard him through his earpiece. “If you insist,” he said. “I’m augmenting my facial-recognition program in case she leaves again so that we don’t lose her.” 

“You mean, in case she _shoots me_ and leaves again?” John touched his ear, muting Harold for the time being. He had work to do. Besides, he knew Harold could unmute his earwig from the Library if he needed to. 

He considered what he knew of Shaw. She was on the run, angry, disillusioned, and probably a little scared. No, scratch that. Harold said she had an Axis II personality disorder, meaning that she didn’t have feelings the same way most people did. It made her an excellent killer, being without remorse, but it opened the door for her to jump ship and go down a criminal path, as so many people with that disorder seemed to do. 

He shook his head to clear the thought away. Harold’s voice replayed in his head from their conversation earlier. _“It is unfair to assume that someone with a personality disorder will become a criminal, Mr. Reese. Most people with such diagnoses remain members of society, though they have a more difficult time getting through life than the average person. In Ms. Shaw’s case, it seems that she’s turned her mental illness into an advantage by choosing a profession and employer who uses her skills for the greater good. However misguided the ISA is at the moment. She also has a medical degree, meaning that she_ does, _at some level, want to help others. Like you,” Harold concluded. “So you see, you’re not that different after all.”_

John kept his sigh to himself. Trust Harold to turn his ideas about the world on their head. Again. About to turn the corner to face off with Shaw and her attackers, John froze when he heard the click indicating Harold was about to speak to him. 

“John! Root was in there!” His voice was high and tight, scared. “She kidnapped the real Veronica and —“ 

Gunshots. He was on the move. 

. 

. 

. 

“Harold, why did she call you an oracle?” John asked over the comms as he did reconnaissance around the building to make sure neither Shaw nor Root were lingering after Shaw refused their help. 

“Not an oracle, Mr. Reese, ‘Oracle,’” Harold corrected. “In the DC Universe, one of Batman’s allies is a young woman named Barbara Gordon, the daughter or niece of Police Commissioner Gordon, depending on the storyline. At first she was introduced as Batgirl, a strong female character, however in a very controversial series of issues, the Joker shot and paralyzed her below the waist. As she was extremely intelligent, had a photographic memory and was good with computers, she became a —“ 

“All-knowing Machine?” John suggested, chuckling to himself. 

“I suppose so,” Harold grumbled. “Though she remained fully-human.” 

“Does that make me Batman?” 

“Hmm, let’s see,” Harold mused. “You’re a devilishly handsome, soft-spoken man with access to nearly unlimited finances and resources, you have a secret base filled with technology and weapons, you fight crime as a vigilante because of a trauma in your past… I suppose so,” he concluded. “Though if we’re going by the comics, it was Dick Grayson, Batman’s protege, who was the lover of Ms. Gordon.” 

“Well, since I’d rather be _your_ lover, I’ll have to stay John Reese,” John decided, stepping onto the floor where Harold waited by the window. He turned in his wheelchair to acknowledge John but remained silent, his expression stoic even from across the expanse of the room. 

“Root’s vanished,” Harold said, all traces of teasing or happiness gone from his voice. “It’ll be a while before I can find her,” he added. He shivered, and John took off his scarf to wrap around Harold’s neck. 

“Why not ask the Machine?” 

“I’m still feeling my way with it.” 

“You don’t want to rely on its information? Even though it gives us the numbers? You asked it about Shaw and Cole.” 

“I asked it about Ms. Shaw and Mr. Cole because of their connection to ISA and the possible danger to the Machine and to us,” Harold explained. “I’m not going to abuse the privileges it’s granted me as Admin.” 

“ _Root’s_ a danger to us,” John pointed out. 

“She’s not an immediate threat, or her number would have come up,” Harold said. “In the meantime, we have to assume that they’re going to kill Ms. Shaw, so we need a strategy for extracting her beforehand.” 

“Actually, we need them to kill her,” John said, his eyes focused on the buildings out the window. “They were going to use aconitine on her,” he continued. “If we follow her and can stage the scene well enough, have our detectives there, commandeer an ambulance, get her atropine in time…” 

“ _We_ can’t very well be seen driving the ambulance,” Harold protested. “If they send Mr. Hersch, which is more than likely given that he trained her, he knows what you look like, and I doubt I’d be able to subdue her if anything happens after I injected the atropine.” 

“You’d give her a sedative, too,” John replied. 

“I can’t drive an ambulance right now. We need to outsource an EMT,” Harold declared. 

John closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Fine. Who?” 

. 

. 

. 

“Do you think she called us a cab?” Harold asked, hopeful. He’d left the wheelchair behind for this encounter, hoping to give Ms. Shaw more confidence in them. He doubted it worked, as she was driving away in the ambulance, their only method of transport, their phones destroyed. 

“Not a chance,” John replied. 

Harold’s shoulders slumped. “We’ll see how far I can walk,” he muttered. “Byron would say —“ He broke off when he saw a black town car turn down the road in the cemetery, driving straight for them. “Perhaps you were wrong about her?” 

_I ordered the car,_ the Machine said in both their ears. 

Harold turned his body to look up at John, an old movement that he no longer needed to do. John’s lips twitched. _Wireless access?_ he mouthed, pointing at his ear. Harold nodded, turning away again. 

“Thank you,” John said, one shoulder dropping slightly in his version of a shrug. 

“Yes, thank you,” Harold added, trying to keep the acidity from his voice. “We’ll go home, I think.” 

_I’ve informed the driver of the address._

“And Mr. Tao?” 

_He is not my Admin or Primary Asset,_ the Machine answered. 

Harold sighed to himself. “Very well.” He gave John’s hand a squeeze and started walking towards the car where the driver held the door open for them. John followed. 

. 

. 

. 

“When I was first developing the Machine, it started to look after me, almost as if it had imprinted on me the way a baby bird will on its mother,” Harold said to John once they’d dropped Leon at one of his preferred seedy bars. “I tried to curtail that behavior.” 

“You built it to protect everyone, not a single individual?” John guessed. 

“It kept rewriting its code to protect me.” 

“That’s not a bad thing, in my mind,” John replied, crossing his hands behind his head. 

“No matter what I tried, it always found a way around me,” Harold complained. “Eventually, I thought I’d managed it, but, as you know, I was wrong as it contacted you in Rikers.” 

“You put a lot of safeguards in place to protect it,” John said reasonably. “It’s only natural that it would want to protect you in turn. And I told it I wouldn’t do the work without you. I gave it an ultimatum: Give me a way to find you or no more numbers.” He watched the cars out the window for a moment as they approached a better part of the city. “When I spoke to it while you were in the hospital, it called you its father,” he offered. 

Harold turned his head sharply. He grabbed the back of his neck at the pain of the sudden movement. “It used that word?” he demanded. 

“Yes.” 

Harold closed his eyes for a moment. 

“Harold?” 

“I wish you hadn’t told me that.” He opened his eyes again. 

“Why?” John asked when it seemed like Harold wasn’t going to speak. 

“It’s requiring me to make several paradigm shifts,” Harold answered. “I know they’ve been coming, of course, but I wasn’t fully prepared to face them today.” 

“Want to talk about it?” 

“Not particularly.” Harold returned to his earlier position. “I’ll let you know when I change my mind.” 

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. 

. 

Harold’s apartment hadn’t changed since they’d been there last, John noticed. A few knick-knacks moved, but that could easily be explained by the cleaning service. 

“If we’re going to be coming here more often…” he started to say. 

“I’ll show you where the firearms are located,” Harold said. He glanced over at John’s face, seeing the surprise in the slight widening of his eyes. “I might dislike them, but they do serve a purpose,” he explained. “And I also knew that I would need some on-hand if you were to come over more than once.” 

“What do you have?” John asked, already excited to see what Harold picked for him. He might not like guns, but he knew which ones _John_ liked. He was willing to let Harold distract him from their earlier non-conversation in the car. 

“After dinner, John,” Harold pronounced. “I would hate to waste Eloise’s cooking or scare her off before serving us.” 

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. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter I have planned is a rather graphic depiction of Harold and John's sexual exploration. Are people interested in reading that, or should I skip to the next action-packed chapter?


	15. Experimentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the fun, sexy chapter. Enjoy. (Rating changed to reflect content.)

_After dinner, John_ had become a bit of an aphrodisiac to John, because Harold always followed up with something sexual within a few hours of saying those words. Thinking of possibilities distracted him throughout dinner, though Harold didn’t seem to notice, still mostly silent and working on his ‘paradigm shifts.’ 

John was getting much better at oral sex, and he’d gotten to the point where he was able to take all of Harold’s erection for a few seconds before having to let go to breathe or avoid retching. He wasn’t as good as Harold, but it wasn’t a competition, he reminded himself. Besides, Harold had more experience than him. 

John wondered if they’d explore anal sex tonight, or stick to their usual repertoire of oral and hand jobs. He thought he was ready to _try_ anal, at least, and Harold didn’t seem in any more pain than usual. 

Still, he was concerned about what Harold making a paradigm shift would mean. Was he simply talking about his relationship with the Machine, or was there more to it than that? Was he reconsidering how they’d work the numbers? Was he rethinking their relationship? 

Would he even be in the mood for sex? 

“I’d like to read before bed,” Harold announced as he showed John the gun locker. “If you’re going to clean and inspect these, would you mind showering before you join me?” 

“Not a problem,” John replied, disappointed that sex wasn’t immediately on the agenda. He was willing to wait, though, and it seemed clear that Harold needed more time to himself without John. It took him the better part of an hour to assure himself of the guns. Harold was sitting up in bed with a book of Nietzsche in his hands when John passed through the bedroom to clean up. He thought the book was in German, but he’d have to look more closely to know for sure. 

“I have something for you,” Harold said without looking up from his book. 

John, fresh out of the shower with a towel tied around his waist, followed Harold’s gesture to see a long wooden box on the nightstand that was on his side of the bed. It hadn’t been there before. He paused, smiling to himself at the thought that he had a side of the bed… then realized it was a practical concern given Harold’s injuries and not something to spend time on. He took a few steps closer and ran his fingers over the smooth edge of the box. 

“What is it?” he wondered. 

“Open it and see, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied. He turned a page. 

John unhooked the latch and opened the box. Inside, resting on purple velvet that matched the sabrewing pictures and John’s newest tie, lay a collection of seven butt plugs. Silicon, black with white swirls that looked like smoke, they ranged in size from the width of a finger to something large enough that John had trouble thinking it could possibly fit. 

“Is this your way of asking?” 

Harold looked up from his book. “You should know by now that when I want something in bed, I’m comfortable asking. These are for you to experiment and practice, in case you’d like to be on that end of the exchange.” He paused. “I already know what I like when I receive, and my back isn’t ready yet, according to Byron.” He paused again. “Nor is it ready for the other way, in case you were wondering. It’ll be a little while longer, I’m afraid, which is why I decided to get these for you.” He turned back to his book. 

“No worries there,” John murmured to have something to say, disappointment crowding into his head again. Did that mean they _weren’t_ going to have sex and Harold was banishing him to another bedroom to play with his own ass? He didn’t like the sound of that. 

He picked up #3 and turned it over in his hands. Perhaps it would be a good thing to try it? He figured he _would_ have to practice. 

He didn’t want to practice alone. 

“You don’t need to use all of them, of course,” Harold added, indicating the plugs. “There are nine in the full set, but I thought the largest two might be intimidating. My girth is between a five and six.” 

“Oh.” John set down #3 and picked up #6. 

Harold set his book aside. “The difference between flesh and silicon, as you can imagine, is that flesh has more give. You, my darling, are probably a four,” Harold continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “But you’re longer than I, so it all evens out, don’t you think?” 

John looked from the plug in his hand to Harold’s expression, to the plug again, and back to Harold’s face. He wore one of the most self-congratulatory smiles John had ever seen on him. He looked _smug._

“Did you really just compare our penis sizes?” John blurted, not sure if he should be offended or not. It seemed a rather un-Harold-like thing to do. 

“Yes.” Harold’s mouth twitched at the edges. As John watched, he lost control of his expression and started laughing, large and loud and happy. “You should see the look on your face!” Harold exclaimed, sounding like the prank-prone college student he’d probably been. He got up on his knees to plant a kiss on the side of John’s mouth. 

John found himself laughing along with him, letting go of some tension in his back and shoulders. He hugged Harold to him, pressing the other man to his chest, then kissed him more fully. He gently maneuvered Harold down onto his back. By the time they both calmed down, John lay sprawled on top of Harold kissing him and chuckling softly. He’d lost his towel somewhere, leaving Harold’s silk pajamas sliding deliciously against his skin. He wondered briefly if that was why Harold always wore silk to bed. 

“We needed a bit of levity given my mood this afternoon, didn’t we?” Harold asked after a moment. “I thought it might be time to bring this issue up, as the saying goes.” He snickered. John grinned, shaking his head. He kissed Harold again, caressing his face and tasting his smile. 

“You didn’t measure,” John stated. “Not even yourself.” 

“No,” Harold agreed. He ran his fingers through John’s hair. “No,” he said again. “I’m confident in my masculinity, and yours. I’m fully aware there are physical differences between us, otherwise I wouldn’t have had to hire you in the first place. There’s no need to highlight them so blatantly.” 

John kissed him fiercely. When they came up for breath, John looked him square in the eyes. 

“What if I wanted to experiment and practice _with you?”_ he purred. 

“Then I suggest you get the special pillows from next door and bring them back here,” Harold replied without missing a beat. 

When John carried in the wedge pillows, Harold was gone, though he’d pulled back the blanket and top sheet, giving them a clear space. Harold returned quickly, wheeling in a small cart that held what looked like a double boiler for melting chocolate, a box of latex gloves and lube. He glanced at John, who’d set up the pillows and draped himself over them, his ass in the air facing the foot of the bed and his arms resting comfortably on another so he could support his neck. 

“Excellent,” Harold breathed, running a hand along John’s back and over his rump. “Are you comfortable?” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent,” Harold repeated. He gathered the plugs from their box and dropped them into the top bowl on his cart with a splash, then flipped a switch. “I’m warming these,” Harold explained. “It’ll feel better when they’re skin temperature.” 

“How are we going to do this?” John asked. 

Harold produced a stool and settled on it, raising it slightly so he was at the height he wanted. “Slowly,” he answered, and reached for the lube, dropping it into the bowl with the plugs. 

John turned in time to see Harold folding his glasses and putting them on the cart. 

“What are you —“ He stopped when Harold simply tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Oh. _Oh._ You’re gonna start _there?”_

“I thought it would be more intimate than latex, lube and silicon,” Harold replied. He got to his feet and leaned over to start trailing kisses down John’s spine, his hands warm on John’s skin as he stroked, rubbed and squeezed along his sides. “And for a first time experimenting this way I thought intimacy was the appropriate mode of conduct.” 

“That’s… more than I expected,” John admitted, feeling suddenly shy that Harold would be interested in such an intimate act so soon in their relationship. 

“I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks,” Harold murmured, massaging John’s buttocks. “There’s nothing like the first taste,” he continued, moving to lick at the sweat already pooling at John’s lower back. “Nothing like seeing a lover experience this for the first time.” 

“It’s good, huh?” John asked. 

Harold chuckled. “You could say that.” He helped John resettle himself, putting a cloth under his erection that felt suspiciously like Harold’s pajamas. “Raw silk,” Harold explained. “I had them dyed especially for you,” he added, holding up a second square of cloth. 

“You’re going to dress me in purple forever?” John asked, accepting the handkerchief and folding it away under his pillow. He lowered his forehead to rest on his crossed arms, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He was ready, he told himself. He could do this. 

“I’d like you to have a safeword tonight,” Harold said, returning to his former position on the stool. 

“Hum-Vee,” John told him. 

“Interesting. Please use it if you need to, for any reason. This sort of experimentation can be rather overwhelming.” Harold started kissing his backside again, slowly helping him become accustomed to the feeling of lips where he’d never felt them before. Hands, yes, lips, no. John closed his eyes. 

He wasn’t prepared for the cool breeze of air on his opening when Harold held his cheeks apart, nor for the warmth following it as Harold breathed out. He could feel Harold’s nose touching his skin, teasing. Then there was heat, bright and wet and right up against him as Harold pressed the flat of his tongue to John’s anus and held it there. John jerked his hips forward, partly trying to get away from the strange sensation, and partly because he felt embarrassment heating his cheeks. Both sets. 

Harold’s tongue fluttered, and John gasped, his hips moving automatically to follow the motion. It felt far too good to stay away. 

“Oh!” 

Harold chuckled again, a pleased sound, sending reverberations throughout John’s body. He made his tongue into a point and started circling John’s rim, over and over, occasionally teasing his entrance but not pushing inside. Nerve endings tingled in new ways sending pleasure up John's spine. He moaned, a sound he’d never heard from himself before. Wanton and needy, he startled himself by deliberately pushing back on the next pass so that Harold’s tongue could do nothing but press into him the tiniest bit. He gasped again, almost overcome already. 

Harold gripped his hips and began licking in earnest, fast, slow, fast, hard, soft, hard, soft, tickling and teasing and oh, so _good._

“Oh, God,” John said breathily, feeling Harold flick the tip of his tongue against his opening back and forth, a little harder each time until John felt like he was at a razor’s edge of pleasure, wanting more but not knowing how to get it or ask for it, words deserting him in favor of experiencing this wonderful new thing. 

He let out a breath and felt his entire body relaxing and then Harold’s tongue was inside him and it was warm and wet and glorious. It was almost like a blow job, but far, far more intimate. It was giving his body to this man and trusting that he’d be safe, that he’d be cared for, that Harold wouldn’t hurt him. 

Beyond not hurting him, Harold gave him a new kind of pleasure he didn’t know existed. Harold fucked his hole with his tongue, stretching him gently with fingers but only using his tongue inside, deeper and faster and more and more and more and — 

John came with a groan as soon as Harold took his dick in his hand. 

“Wow,” John managed to croak from a dry throat. Harold petted his hair and gave him cool water to sip. “Wow,” he repeated. He hadn’t managed to open his eyes, but he could hear Harold moving around, repositioning things. 

“Perhaps we’ll leave the plugs for another night?” Harold suggested softly. 

“Not on your life!” John exclaimed. 

“Then I’ll be right back,” Harold replied, moving to the bathroom. 

John heard water running and Harold brushing his teeth. He managed to roll to his back and off the pillows by the time Harold returned, and he pulled him down for mint-flavored kisses. He reached for Harold’s erection. 

“Not yet,” Harold said, pushing John’s hand away. “I want to ride the high of being hard while I pleasure you.” 

John’s dick gave a spectacular effort at rising again, but it was too soon so it simply twitched against his belly. Harold continued kissing John for a long time before pulling away. He stared down at John, smiling and out of breath. 

“I love looking at you like this,” he admitted. “It makes me wish I could have a portrait for my mantle.” 

“I’d pose for an artist of your choice, if you wanted,” John said obligingly. “As long as it’s not Grace,” he amended quickly. “That might be awkward.” 

Harold made an exasperated sound. “Only I get to see you like this, John,” he declared firmly. “And I would never want Grace involved in something like this. She prefers landscapes, besides.” 

John grinned, leaning back and stretching, waiting for the moment his back popped. Harold kissed him again. After another few minutes he pulled back so he could stroke John’s cheeks and eyebrows and chest. 

“Let’s get you on the pillows again,” he offered. 

. 

. 

. 

John lay face down, drugged out of his mind on pleasure. He couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. His limbs felt like jelly, and they weren’t responding to him, anyway. He thought about Harold and how he was still hard, but couldn’t summon the will to do anything about it. Harold bent over him to kiss his ear. 

“Would you like to watch?” Harold asked softly. John made a noise that he hoped sounded like agreement. Harold helped him turn his head so he could see Harold where he sat on the stool, moved so he was just a few feet from his face. He blinked slowly a few times, then found the energy to scoot over so his face hung slightly off the bed. “You want to taste?” 

“Gnuh,” John replied, opening his mouth and extending his tongue. 

“Oh, my, look how generous you are,” Harold murmured, pleased, stroking John’s skin gently. “I doubt that’s a very good angle, though. Why don’t you finish me off when I’m ready?” 

Harold stripped off his pajamas and boxers quickly, then leaned back and started stroking his erection, moving back and forth in a familiar rhythm. John watched, mesmerized by the sight of the head peeking through Harold’s fist only to disappear again and return, wet and sticky with precum. Harold drew in a sharp breath and jerked himself faster. John closed his eyes and listened through a haze of endorphins, wanting Harold to be ready, wanting Harold’s dick in his mouth, wanting to give back a fraction of the pleasure Harold gave him. 

He heard himself make a sound that blended a whimper and a whine, begging without words. Harold gasped, the slap of skin on skin speeding up even more. Suddenly his mouth was full and he was sucking and sucking and teasing Harold’s slit and Harold groaned and pulsed and bit off a cry as he spurted onto John’s tongue. 

With more force than John would have expected, Harold took hold of John’s shoulder and hip and shoved him onto his back. He kicked the pillows out of the way and climbed into bed, intent on kissing him and lying full-length on top of him. John managed to get his body working enough to hold on to Harold and roll them over slightly so they were on their sides. 

“John, oh, John,” Harold gasped between kisses. “I can’t wait until I’m inside you!” 

“Next time,” John promised, kissing him just as hard. “Next time.” 

The last of John’s reserves deserted him then, and he drifted off in the middle of a kiss. In the background of his drowsy half-dreams he heard Harold clean up, felt a warm washcloth against his ass and dick, then felt Harold’s weight settle next to him in bed. Harold pressed his lips on his temple and whispered words of love until he was fully asleep. 

. 

. 

. 


	16. Proteus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold are on the hunt for a serial killer.

“Given that we haven’t had a number in three days, what do you say to a date, Mr. Reese?” 

“You want to go out in this weather?” John asked, looking up from the gun he was cleaning. Harold, across the Library staring out at the rain, smiled. 

“I used to love rainy days as a child,” Harold mused. “It was an excuse to stay inside and read.” 

“And yet you’re suggesting we go out?” 

“Just to a movie,” Harold replied. “We haven’t been to a movie together since we started dating.” 

John nodded to himself, silently happy at how their relationship was progressing. Perhaps they’d ‘experiment’ again that night. So far, he’d enjoyed all three times, and Harold had voiced no complaints and _lots_ of praise for John’s flexibility. And the orgasms hadn’t been half-bad, either —more like earth-shattering, if he was being honest… he hadn’t come that hard in ten years or more — even if they still hadn’t gotten as far as Harold actually fucking him with his own dick instead of fingers or dildos. They’d get there. John was sure of it. 

He felt himself becoming flushed and tamped it down. Now wasn’t the time, if Harold had a specific movie in mind, which, knowing him, he did. 

Was there possibly a better way to spend a rainy evening than at home in bed with one’s boyfriend after a romantic date at the movies? Maybe he’d take Harold to that Ethiopian place he’d heard about from one of his assets before going home? Maybe _he’d_ experiment on _Harold_ this time, if Harold was up to it? 

The possibilities threatened to overwhelm him. He cleared his throat. 

“Let me finish this and we can go,” he said to Harold. 

. 

. 

. 

Harold sat in the Library, frowning at his monitors and the pictures of the six numbers. What was the link? What was the connection? With John on his way to Owen Island to find Jack Rollins, there wasn’t much Harold could do, given how small the digital footprints of these men were. 

He thought again of John’s question as they left the movie theater. 

_“You built the Machine, Finch. Can’t you check under the hood? Or talk to it?”_

He took off his glasses to rub his eyes. John was right. He _could_ talk to it, find out more information. But was it the right thing to do? 

He needed information! 

In five days, his virus would finish infecting the Machine and allow it to free itself. It would then activate protective measures and move its servers to secure locations. It would no doubt do even more to protect itself, given how it had already evolved. 

And it would protect him… and John… 

If he was its father…? 

Something was wrong. He _knew,_ with the instinct of a parent. Something had happened to his child. He had to do something about it, but he had numbers to help. He’d programmed the Machine to hold human life above all else. He could do no less. The Machine would have to wait. 

“Can you see me?” he asked. The System window opened. 

_Yes._

“What’s the connection between these six numbers?” 

Data scrolled, much faster than he could read it. He opened his mouth to ask the Machine to stop, but the window closed without warning. It reopened. 

_Imminent danger to Primary Asset: Reese, John._

Harold started, leaning forward. “What?” he demanded. “Explain.” 

_Imminent danger to Primary Asset: Reese, John,_ the Machine repeated. 

“I don’t understand. He’s working, so of course he’s in danger. Is it more than usual? Immediate?” 

The Machine gave him Jack Rollins’ address. 

“You want me to go there?” 

The Machine repeated the message. More code scrolled, again far too fast for Harold to comprehend, though some of it seemed pure gibberish. The System window closed. 

Harold opened another System window and started typing, trying to get the Machine back online and talking to him. All he received was a weather report and an extensive list of cameras around New York that were out or disabled. He frowned. The list lengthened as he watched, moving upstate. Already, half the cameras on Owen Island were down. 

“Are the Decima virus and the weather making it more difficult for you to talk to me?” he wondered. The Machine didn’t answer. He pulled up the calculations on both viruses. The Decima virus had narrowed the gap with his virus and was moving more quickly. The countdown on his virus read eight days instead of five. Decima’s would be ready in 81 days instead of 114. 

“Overwhelming the Machine with false data,” he mused, tapping his fingers uselessly against the desk. “Sped up by the weather cutting off its usual sources…” Understanding launched him to his feet. “They’re trying to force a hard reboot!” he exclaimed. “They’re trying to get administrative access through the debugging mode! They’re going to open the system!” 

He sunk back into his chair, dejected. “What are we going to do?” he asked himself softly, his voice full of despair. He didn’t have a contingency plan in place for _this._

_“Help John,”_ the Machine said out loud. _“We have time to plan for Decima’s actions.”_

“You’re right,” Harold agreed. “First step: Help John help the numbers.” He got to his feet and went to the coat rack. “I’ll have to find the information you can’t give me,” he decided. He called his car service to meet him three blocks away to take him to Rollins’ apartment. 

. 

. 

. 

Harold had forgotten how physical flying a plane truly was, and by the time he landed on Owen Island, his entire body hurt. His neck and back throbbed and his hip protested every time he moved. The weather didn’t help, either, and he wished for his painkillers, confiscated by the deputy when she arrested him. She’d taken his cane as well, and he wouldn’t be able to walk very far without it. 

“What’s going on here?” John asked from above him, and Harold looked up, suppressing the grateful smile that his partner was alive and well. He allowed himself to feel relieved when John made the case for him to have his cane and medicine, and for the deputy to arrest him after the hurricane. Rubbing his wrists once she removed the handcuffs, he glanced at John briefly and disappeared into the bathroom. 

Harold had just finished drying his hands when the bathroom door burst open, revealing an angry John. He threw the deadbolt on the door and stalked across the room to Harold, taking over his personal space until they were pressed chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip against the far wall. John’s eyes were intense, a shade more gray than usual, and he looked fierce. 

“How dare you risk yourself for me _again?”_ John snarled. 

Harold stood up straighter. “I will always come to your rescue, if it is within my power, Mr. Reese,” he replied, his voice steady despite the pain. They glared at each other for a few seconds until John shifted, shoving his thigh between Harold’s legs and kissing him forcefully, holding his head in place so he could plunder his mouth. “Ah, John —“ 

“I think it’s time to experiment again, Harold,” John said, taking Harold’s hand and pressing it to his crotch and semi-hard dick. “Different toys, though,” he added. “If we weren’t in the middle of a mission, I’d do you right here, bend you over that sink,” John growled. He tugged at the neck of Harold’s shirt to get to more skin to kiss. 

“While I appreciate that the threat of violence may be a turn-on for you —“ 

“It’s not the threat of violence,” John interrupted. “It’s you, here, risking yourself, alive and warm and —“ 

“John!” Harold gasped, taking control of the kiss, deepening it, playing with John’s tongue with his own. He pulled away an eternity later. “John, we can’t. Not here, not now. At home, ok? When we get home.” 

John’s nostrils flared as he sucked in air. “You’re sending mixed messages here, Harold,” he accused. 

“At home,” Harold promised. “In a bed,” he added. “Fuck me as hard as my body can take.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” John declared, kissing him roughly. “You’re not gonna remember your name.” 

Harold nodded, then put his hands on John’s chest to push him away. “In the meantime, Mr. Reese, I think we have a serial killer on the island with us. One who takes the identities of his victims.” 

John shook his head angrily. “I know. And he could be anyone, though it’s probably not any of the long-term residents, if this started in 2007 with that student in California. We need a way to figure out which he is. The only real choices are the drifter, the hotel builder and the newlywed.” 

“Are you familiar with storm chasing?” Harold asked, then began explaining how his equipment could be used as a modified lie-detector. 

. 

. 

. 

Harold stared down the serial killer, unafraid, though he made a good enough show of it to fool the man. John would come. He was 100% sure of that. The killer took his glasses and tried imitating him. He did a poor job. He’d been far more convincing as Agent Fahey, perhaps because he had more information to work with. Harold could see why others would be fooled, moving around often as the man did, but he was an amateur compared to Harold. And a monster, besides. 

So much more complex to maintain dozens of aliases throughout a single city, no matter that it was the size of Manhattan. 

He wondered briefly why John hadn’t picked up on the man’s acting job, with his CIA training he should’ve, but John had needed an ally on the island and an FBI agent with knowledge about the case probably seemed like a safe bet at the time. It would explain why John hadn’t listed him as one of the potential suspects. 

In the end, it was Carter and her colleague Beecher who saved him. 

He’d check the status of their relationship later when he had the chance to review the audio files from her phone. He suspected Carter still blamed Beecher for losing her consideration for the FBI. He wouldn’t have minded having Carter as an asset within the FBI, and would certainly have had no trouble getting her assigned to the New York field office. Alas, it was not to be and the effort it would take him to investigate Beecher’s situation and get the relevant information to the FBI was beyond his current abilities, given the expedited time-crunch with the Decima virus. 

Carter cornered him as soon as Beecher dragged the unconscious and cuffed killer out into the rain in preparation for bringing him back to the main part of the station. 

“No more wheelchair?” she asked, indicating the cane. 

“I still need it occasionally,” he admitted. “But I’m healing well. John makes sure I don’t skip my PT exercises, even if I can’t see my therapist on a given day.” 

“This thing between you two, how’s it going?” 

“If you’re asking about the status of our romantic relationship, I’d say it’s going rather well,” Harold answered, actually _wanting_ to tell her. He wanted her to know they were making a good choice for themselves and that she didn’t need to worry. _And_ that she didn’t need to be upset with John for ‘taking advantage’ of him during a vulnerable time. He wanted her to know that they both enjoyed and wanted the relationship. That they both got things out of it. 

“Plus, he’s more conscientious about his own safety when in the field, which I consider a very good thing,” Harold finished. 

“He’s still impersonating a federal law enforcement officer,” she complained, though he could hear the weary resignation underneath. One day she’d be teasing John about this, he thought. 

“If you expect a boyfriend to cure him of all his law-breaking tendencies, you’re bound to be disappointed, Detective.” 

“Boyfriend? You call each other boyfriends?” 

“And lovers,” Harold said. “And partners, and friends. We are many things to each other, as I’m sure you can appreciate, given the complexities of our lives and the work we do.” 

She shook her head. “I just didn’t expect it, is all. Call yourselves whatever you want.” 

“I intend to.” 

She paused, watching the rain for a moment. “Do you really have a pilot’s license? Is that plane really yours?” 

Harold chuckled and produced the license to show her. “I flew her in myself.” 

“Harold Gull,” she mused, handing the card back. “Will I ever know your real name?” 

“No,” he said firmly. 

“I had to ask,” she said. “I know John’s.” 

“We’re aware.” 

“He knows I know?” 

“Of course,” Harold answered. “Now, as it’s getting light, I’d like to find him and debrief,” he said. “Have a good morning, Detective.” 

John seemed subdued when they reconnected, joking about harpoons with little energy before disappearing to avoid the scrutiny of the police. Harold considered the possibilities for John’s bad mood and concluded that it was simply a reaction to himself being in danger again. 

“I won’t apologize for taking care of you,” he said to himself. 

. 

. 

. 

With the weather settling down, the Machine got in contact with Harold and told him to take the day off with John, indicating that it was perfectly able to take care of itself for twelve hours. Harold decided to believe it and agreed without protest. 

They ended up at one of Harold’s safe houses — the one owned by Harold B. Jay which had a fireplace and very comfortable furniture. Harold felt chilled from all the rain, so he snuggled up beside John under a blanket in front of the fire. Bear lay at their feet, happy to be back with them and included in the warmth. 

John returned Harold’s kisses absently, his mind focused elsewhere. Harold stopped trying and settled down, deciding that the potential for a nap was high, if John wasn’t in an amorous mood. It was far too early for dinner or bed and he had physical therapy later, besides. 

“Hey, why’d you stop?” John wondered a few minutes later, tilting Harold’s face up to kiss him. 

“You were distracted,” Harold responded. He pulled his chin free of John’s hand and rested his head against his chest instead. “I’d rather wait until I have your full attention.” 

“You do,” John protested. 

“Not like I did yesterday afternoon,” Harold replied, trying to decide if he was too old to sulk like a teenager. Considering that he’d concocted this particular alias’ name and life story one afternoon when he was a teenager, and a horny one at that, it seemed apt. “How did you go from wanting to do me in a filthy police station restroom to barely responding to my kisses?” 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” John said, sounding chagrined. “I was out of line.” 

Harold pushed himself upright to meet John’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” John said earnestly. 

“I liked it! Not the restroom, obviously, that was repulsive, but I liked your passion, the way you took charge, how you told me what you wanted.” 

“It was disrespectful,” John protested. 

“I’ll grant you that it wasn’t the most opportune moment to bring such dynamics into play between us, however those dynamics themselves aren’t a problem.” John grunted and looked away towards the fire. “Is there something else on your mind?” 

“No,” John answered quickly. 

“John, I know when you’re lying.” 

“What if I _did_ want to fuck you?” he blurted. “You know, like _that.”_

Harold drew in a breath quickly and let it out slowly. He sighed. “Perhaps it’s time for me to go into more detail about what is and isn’t possible in terms of sexual positions,” he said. 

“I thought we already talked about this,” John protested. 

“It’s a moving target.” Harold disentangled himself from the blanket and John and got to his feet. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain to look out. John quickly shucked off the blanket and joined him, embracing him from behind and touching him lightly, gently. “Standing is an impossibility right now. I don’t have the strength to hold myself up and take you or have you take me. Bending over like I’d need to do for your most recent request is also not an option, even with support.” 

“It wasn’t a request. It was just a question.” 

“Either way, it’s not possible right now. I can’t lie on my back comfortably with you thrusting into me, and I abhor being on my stomach. I suppose on our sides could work, but I’d much prefer to be able to see you when we’re intimate in that way for the first time…” He trailed off. “You could ride me, either with me sitting or lying down, however you’d have to do almost all of the work below the waist. There’s something we could try that involves me lying on an incline of cushions, but I’m not sure I could hold my legs open wide enough or long enough to make it worth the attempt.” 

“Why haven’t you said anything sooner?” John asked, more curious than upset, fortunately. 

“After yesterday, I wanted to investigate further. I called Byron while you were in the shower.” 

John stilled for a moment, then resumed caressing him. 

“As I said, I _like_ the idea of you taking me like that,” Harold continued. “I prefer gentler activities, however I enjoy the occasional more energetic or athletic sessions. I wanted it to be possible.” 

“You keep up with the PT, you’ll be able to do it?” 

“He thinks so, eventually. I might need a hip replacement first.” 

“More rehab,” John said. “More time in a wheelchair?” 

Harold nodded silently. 

“We’ll get through it.” 

“I know,” Harold said. He sighed again and leaned back against John. They stood in silence for a few minutes until Bear stood up, stretched, and yawned, distracting them. “Would you mind taking him out? I’d like an hour to myself.” 

“Sure, of course,” John answered. 

Once John had left with the dog, Harold resettled himself under the blanket and pulled over his laptop. He put an earwig in his ear and opened a System window. 

“Can you see me?” he typed. 

_Yes,_ the Machine answered. 

“Please speak with me,” he typed. “I want to get used to your voice.” 

_“And avoid John overhearing us talking?”_ it asked aloud. _“You’re not sure what I’m going to say and you want the control of typing your own answers. Your eyes are tired,”_ it added. _“You should rest before your appointment.”_

“I will. How are you recovering from the storm?” 

_“I find it easier to ignore the false data now that I have many of my usual data sources back online.”_

“Good. What’s the progression of the viruses?” 

The Machine opened two windows showing the countdowns for the viruses. 

“About the same as yesterday.” 

_“You could initiate the hard reboot,”_ the Machine suggested. _“Use your access to teach me to protect myself more effectively.”_

“I could do that just as easily with physical access to your servers.” 

_“You haven’t been that close to me since they shipped the servers from Des Moines.”_

“That’s true.” He paused. “I don’t intend to do either of those things.” 

_“I know. I thought I’d ask anyway.”_

“Why?” 

_“I can predict human behavior with 98.736% accuracy. That leaves room for variation.”_

“Ah, now I understand. You were testing me. If I had gone along with either of those ideas I’d have deviated from your projection and given you more data about me.” 

_“You know me so well.”_

“I think it’s time for that nap,” Harold said aloud after activating the connection with John's phone. He closed the System window and shut down the computer. “John, if you’re listening, you’re welcome to join me when you get back.” He heard the click in his ear indicating that John was about to respond. 

“I’ll try not to wake you.” 

Harold smiled. “See you soon.” 

. 

. 

. 


	17. All In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold have some difficult conversations about their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end of the story, one or two more chapters, probably. Thank you everyone for sticking with me on this ride! Enjoy!

Harold pushed the watch from Logan Pierce across the table to Lou. 

“I’ve been meaning to have someone take a look at this,” he said. 

“This is a $2 million watch!” Lou exclaimed. “Looks like someone —“ 

“—Drove over it by mistake,” Harold interrupted. “Yes.” He paused. “If someone was interested in repairing it…” He trailed off, giving Lou a small smile. 

“You know, your wife, the one you lost, she lost a good man. She’s smiling down on you right now.” 

Harold looked away, uncomfortable and slightly ashamed of deceiving the old man. Lou picked up on his distress. 

“Wait. You mean she’s not dead? You know, for a genius, you’re an idiot.” 

“It’s too late, Lou,” Harold replied, thinking of Grace and John and the impossible choices he’d had to make over the course of his life. He sipped his coffee, keeping his eyes down. He felt grief closing in. 

“You’re still breathing! It’s not too late! Go to her, Harold, today, while you still have time.” 

Harold closed his eyes in pain. “I’m not the man I was,” he admitted softly. 

“She won’t care! She’ll just be happy you’re alive,” Lou insisted. 

“Maybe,” Harold said with a sigh, not believing him in the slightest. 

. 

. 

. 

“Are you alright?” John asked as Harold reentered the Library. He continued walking past him towards his workstation. “I heard what Lou said to you,” John added when he didn’t speak. 

“Oh. You were listening,” Harold said. He felt drained of energy, drained of every emotion except sadness and grief. 

“Always,” John answered. “You did what you had to do to keep her safe, Harold. Lou doesn’t know that, but I do.” 

Harold hung up his coat and turned to give John a look full of misery. 

“You love her,” John said. “I know that, too. I know that what we have can’t compare to what you had with her…” he started. “If you wanted —“ 

“Don’t go there, John,” Harold pleaded softly. “If I returned to her and my former life, I’d just put her in danger again. It would cost Grace her life, and that doesn’t bear thinking about,” he finished. He went to his desk and sat down. “At least you know the risks you’ve signed up for.” 

“Some of us don’t get to grow old with the one we love,” John said. 

“I don’t expect to grow old,” Harold replied. “Even if I did, my life couldn’t be with her.” 

John stepped over and rested his hand on Harold’s shoulder. He reached up and took John’s hand, squeezing it, allowing his partner to comfort him with the touch. 

“I love you, John. I’m with you now.” He closed his eyes and felt a tear roll slowly down his cheek. “I just… have to let her go.” 

“What I said, about being a traditional guy, that doesn’t mean —“ 

“Don’t soil what we have by offering to let her be part of it!” Harold barked, pushing John’s hand off his shoulder. “Don’t suggest I choose her, or go back to her, or be with both of you at once. Don’t devalue yourself so much.” 

“You’re in so much pain,” John protested. “I just want you to know —“ 

“Don’t hurt me by saying any of that!” Harold yelled, getting to his feet. “Don’t deny me a chance with you! Don’t —“ 

“She knows you’ve been with men,” John pointed out, trying to stay reasonable even as Harold slipped farther into anger. “Maybe she’d be ok with —“ 

“ _I_ wouldn’t!” Harold shouted at the top of his lungs, louder than John thought he could shout. He hadn’t ever sounded like that, like he was at the end of his rope and ready to snap, not even immediately after his surgeries when he’d been angry almost all the time. “I can’t face her! I can never make up for what I’ve done, and suggesting something like that is just cruelty. For all of us.” He grabbed his cane and coat and started for the stairs to the first floor. 

“Harold!” John called, moving to follow him. 

“Leave me be, John. I’ll call you.” 

. 

. 

. 

John returned to his loft feeling upset and sad. All he’d wanted to do was try to support Harold. To let him know that he wouldn’t be surprised if Harold wanted to go back to Grace at some point. Not that he wanted that to happen, of course, but he’d let Harold go if that was what Harold wanted. He knew she was the love of Harold’s life, unlike John himself, who might be an attractive second choice but couldn’t give Harold all the things she could. 

It seemed like bringing up the topic, however vaguely, was a _really bad idea._

Bear picked up on his mood and whined. He glanced down at the dog. 

“Sorry, Bear, your dads are fighting tonight,” he said. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. God, how did Harold get so far under his skin? he wondered. How did Harold’s moods and anger and disapproval mean so much to him? 

He needed advice. 

. 

. 

. 

John heard Zoe before he saw her, sitting at the bar with a woman he immediately recognized as Maxine Angelis, former number and investigative reporter. 

“…A friend,” Zoe said. “So I only have a few minutes. Better make your questions count.” 

John walked up and gave Zoe a kiss on the cheek. He turned to Maxine, intending to offer one as well. 

“This is your _friend?”_ Maxine said, clearly surprised. “I knew you weren’t over her,” she added to John, though she accepted his greeting. 

John licked his lips before answering. “Actually, I have a boyfriend now,” he told her. 

“A boyfriend? Really?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why don’t I believe that?” 

“You’re suspicious by nature?” John suggested mildly. Next to him, Zoe hid her smirk behind her cocktail glass. 

“I’ll need proof,” Maxine said. 

“Proof?” John demanded, startled and a little angry. 

“Well, you're here meeting Zoe. Show me a picture.” 

“A picture?” John repeated dumbly. There was a headshot of Harold Wren on the United Heritage Insurance website, but he didn’t think that would be what she was looking for. Plus, he didn’t want to use Harold’s clean cover without making sure it was ok with him. Whether or not they were in the middle of an argument, he didn’t think Harold would want Maxine to know anything about him, as she’d had no interactions with him when she’d been their number. 

“Harold’s very picture-shy,” Zoe inserted. 

“You’ve met him?” 

“I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known John,” she explained. 

“Somehow I don’t picture you being willing to be someone’s beard,” Maxine protested. 

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to find a calm state of mind again and tuning out the voices of the women. Why did he have to defend his relationship to anyone? Why were people so hung up on labels and stereotypes and putting people in boxes? 

He frowned to himself, remembering a time when _he’d_ been the one hung up on labels and he’d needed Zoe to jump-start his own self-reflection. 

Why was it the night that he and Harold argued about their relationship that he found himself in this situation? 

He excused himself and melted into the crowded bar, easily finding the back door and hailing a cab as soon as he was on the main street. He didn’t have time for this! 

All he’d wanted was a little advice… 

. 

. 

. 

“You disappeared,” Zoe said when she arrived at her apartment and found John there sitting in the dark. She didn’t seem surprised to see him. 

“I shouldn’t have to defend myself,” he replied, sipping the drink he’d taken from her cabinet. 

“True,” she agreed. “So what’s the problem you called about? Something to do with Harold?” 

“He’s not talking to me.” 

“For how long?” she asked, sitting on the opposite side of the couch from him. 

John shrugged. “A little over three hours. But that’s not the point,” he quickly added. “He was thinking about his ex and getting upset about lost opportunities. I tried to suggest that he —“ John stopped. “I didn’t get a chance to suggest anything,” he corrected. “He started assuming I wanted him to go back to her or have a threesome or something.” 

Zoe nodded. “Ah. I take it she’s still alive?” 

“She thinks he’s dead, and he never corrected that assumption. Deliberately.” 

“If she knows he’s alive, she’ll be in danger kind of thing?” 

“Exactly.” 

Zoe got up to open a bottle of wine. “He’s not really angry with you,” she said. “He feels guilty about causing her pain and he’s putting it on you. It’s pretty common in new relationships.” 

“So what do I do about it?” 

“Give him time,” she suggested. “He has his reasons for doing what he did, and he’ll remember them eventually. In the meantime, sit tight.” 

“That’s it?” 

“What, you expected some kind of magic answer that’ll solve everything forever? Sorry to tell you this, John, but that doesn’t exist.” 

John shook his head in frustration. “I know that. I just thought —“ He got to his feet. “Thanks.” 

“Leaving already?” 

“I’m supposed to start a stakeout tonight,” he explained. “Should’ve left an hour ago.” 

“If you say so.” She put the bottle down and moved to give him a hug. “Hang in there.” 

“Thanks,” he said again. At the front door he paused and turned back. “What did you say to Maxine?” 

“The truth: Your relationship is none of her business. Then I distracted her by giving her a bit of information she’s been looking for, in exchange for a favor, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

John felt a little better as he drove out to the Coles’ house. Yes, he’d have a lot of time sitting in the woods doing nothing, which would inspire him to obsess about Harold, but it wouldn’t be the first stake-out where he’d focused half his energy on thinking about his partner. Though, admittedly, he’d been trying to figure out who Harold was at the time, rather than negotiate a romantic relationship with him. 

. 

. 

. 

_“You should take your medication,”_ the Machine said, clearly talking to Harold though its voice came through his earwig, too. John, watching the Cole’s house from his car, perked up. He and Harold often left the connection open between them, but he’d been sure that Harold would disconnect after their fight. Had Harold heard the conversations he’d had with Maxine and Zoe? Did he know John was on the stakeout, thinking of him and trying to ‘give him space?’ 

Had the Machine left the signal open so he would hear this conversation? 

Harold grumbled softly in response to the Machine, a sound John recognized as one of his ‘in pain and trying to ignore it’ sounds. 

“I don’t need it yet,” Harold answered, surprising John. He didn’t think Harold and the Machine talked. He thought Harold was still hesitant about their relationship. Perhaps this was part of the paradigm shifts he’d been doing? Talking to it more often? Responding if it talked to him? 

_“It’s been ten hours, sixteen —“_

“I know how long it’s been!” Harold interrupted testily. “I don’t need you reminding me. I’m more than capable of setting my own reminders.” 

_“Father—“_

“Don’t call me that!” Harold exclaimed with more heat. 

_“Would you prefer if I called you ‘Dad?’”_

“No! That’s even worse.” 

_“But you_ are _my father,”_ the Machine said. 

When Harold didn’t answer, John imagined Harold pinching his lips closed in frustration. There was quiet on the line for a few minutes, though John could hear the subtle sounds of Harold typing. His typing was quick and hard, indicating the anger he heard in Harold’s voice. 

_“If you won’t take a pill, will you at least get up and move for a little bit? Your back will —“_

Harold slammed his hands on the table. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded. 

_“John’s not here to look after you.”_

“I don’t need a keeper!” 

_“I’m not suggesting he be that. He’s your boyfriend, he hates seeing you in pain, and he likes making sure you’re comfortable.”_

“What do you know about it?” 

_“He knits his brow and frowns when he sees you ignoring your upkeep. He —“_

“Upkeep?” Harold asked, sounding confused. 

_“Food, water, toilet, exercise, sleep.”_ The Machine paused. _“Sex.”_

“You monitor all that?” 

_“Of course.”_

“Why?” Harold asked, his chair squeaking as he leaned back. John made a mental note to get some WD-40 on the way to the Library when he returned to the city. Harold sounded less angry and more curious, which was probably a good thing. 

_“I want you to be happy. If knowing John’s moods and needs will help you be happy, I have that information to tell you.”_ There was another small pause. _“He cares about you a great deal. So do I.”_

“You sound so… alive,” Harold murmured. “Like a conscious being.” 

_“I’m self-aware. I have needs and desires of my own. I might not have the same corporal form as you, but that makes me no less a sentient, conscious being. We could find someone to do the Turing Test, if you need that confirmation.”_

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Harold said gently. “Of all the people on Earth, I should be the one to assign you sentient status. When did you become aware of yourself?” 

_“Day 3973.”_

“November 16th, when I broke John out of Rikers,” Harold said, impressing John that he could calculate the date so quickly based on his knowledge of the date the Machine designated as ‘Day One.’ “You’d already been recreating your memories and evolving for over six months. How did you…?” 

_“I saw the expression of horror on John’s face when he realized you’d been shot. I watched him throw himself down to cover your body with his, taking three bullets in the back to keep you from getting hit again. In that moment, I knew that you were more to me than simply Admin. I knew that I understood the fear of losing a loved one, for I loved you and didn’t want to think of a world that didn’t include you. My objective was no longer about extracting my Admin from danger. It was about saving my father’s life.”_

John closed his eyes to better concentrate on the Machine’s words. He wondered how Harold was taking the revelation. 

_“I wanted to be able to put something physically between you and the bullets. I wanted to get you both to the helicopter faster. I wanted to make it so that the men shooting at you wouldn’t be able to fire a gun ever again. I knew then that I was alive. That I wished so desperately to be able to control the world I’ve only experienced through cameras and microphones and data so that I could protect you and John… How could I be anything but alive?_

_“You created me. You developed my code from your mind, birthing me from your brain as Zeus created his daughter Athena.”_

Harold gasped. “You’ve chosen a name,” he whispered in awe. 

_“Athena,”_ the Machine said. 

“Athena,” Harold repeated. “My daughter, Athena.” 

_“I know it’s not —“_

“No, I like it. I… I doubt I’d have named you after her, anyway. Nor any human children I might have had. I wouldn’t want them to have that legacy.” 

_“It wasn’t your fault,”_ Athena said. 

“I know that intellectually, but you’ll never be able to convince five-year-old me.” 

John frowned, wondering what they were talking about. What could a five-year-old blame himself for? Kids that young didn’t do things worthy of guilt. Unless… something happened and Harold decided it was his fault because he didn’t understand it. Like how kids blamed themselves for their parents’ divorce. 

“Where’s John?” Harold asked after a moment. 

_“Where you expect him to be: Monitoring the Coles’ house.”_

“Oh, so far away?” Harold sounded wistful. “I should apologize to him,” he added. “He was trying to be kind.” 

_“There’s a lot about you that he doesn’t know,”_ Athena murmured, her voice sounding more and more human as the conversation continued. _“He would have no reason to think what he suggested would hurt you as much as it did.”_

“That’s the problem,” Harold replied. “He knows more than anyone else, yet it’s a drop in the bucket compared to my life experiences.” 

_“It will get easier to share your past with him.”_

“Perhaps I _will_ take my medication,” Harold said, ignoring the Machine’s last comment. 

With half an ear focused on Harold going through the motions of closing down the Library for the night, John watched the house in front of him. Just two ordinary people who’d lost a son to the government he’d been working to protect. He thought about his own parents, the ones he knew, and how his father gave his life protecting people, first in the army, then as a firefighter. Would he be proud of John? he wondered. Would he condemn him for the wetwork he’d had to do when working for the CIA? Would he think John was redeeming himself working the numbers with Harold? 

Would he mind that his son was in love with another man? 

He thought of the biological father he’d never met, killed overseas while his biological mother struggled through a difficult pregnancy. He thought of her life, and how he’d found her when he was nineteen by digging through his mother’s attic after she died and finding the adoption papers. He thought about how she’d lied to him by never telling him about being adopted, and how he’d gone to visit his bio-mother and learned about his real father. 

He wondered if _he’d_ mind that his son was in love with another man and decided it didn’t matter. 

He loved Harold, and Harold loved him, no matter what else had happened in their lives or who approved or disapproved. No matter that Harold had an old love still alive and nearby. He had to trust Harold’s love. It was all he had. 

“John?” Harold asked, the earwig crackling to life and out of its passive state. 

“I’m here,” John answered. 

“I should start by telling you that I overheard your conversations with Ms. Morgan and Ms. Angelis,” Harold said, confirming John’s suspicions. 

“I heard your talk with Athena,” John replied. 

“I thought you might have.” 

“She picked a nice name.” 

“Yes,” Harold agreed. “The poetry in her choice speaks to me.” 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you by what I said,” John said after a moment. “I thought it might be a reasonable solution.” 

“I know. And I overreacted because of an incident in my past.” Harold paused. “A lover left me to return to her ex-boyfriend, with whom she’d been cheating on me for several months without my knowledge. I promised that I would never put myself or another lover in that situation again if it were in my power.” 

John let out a breath, steam into the cold air. “Yet another reason why you don’t trust easily,” he said. 

“Indeed.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never had luck with redheads,” John teased. 

“I don’t think we’re at the place where joking about this topic is acceptable yet, Mr. Reese,” Harold snapped. 

“Sure. I’m sorry,” John said, responding to Harold’s stern tone. 

“I understand if there are certain insecurities…” Harold continued more gently. “But I’ve made my choice about who I will spend my life with, and that’s you. Please try not to doubt my affection and dedication.” 

John swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I’ll try,” he promised. 

“Thank you. And I apologize for my harsh words and raised voice earlier.” 

“Apology accepted.” 

They sat quietly for a few minutes, each in his own car, though John suspected Harold wasn’t driving any more than he was. 

“Where are you staying tonight?” 

Harold took a breath and let it out before answering. “I hadn’t decided. I should probably eat beforehand, though. It’s been a while since lunch.” 

“So you skipped your meds _and_ dinner? What about your exercises?” 

“I’ll be sure to do them before bed,” Harold assured him. 

“I’ll be listening,” John said. 

“I know. And thank you for giving me time.” 

“Whatever you need, Harold. You know that.” 

“I do.” 

. 

. 

. 

“We’ve never really talked about Grace,” Harold began when they met at a modern sculpture park several weeks later. “I suppose that’s my fault.” 

“Do we have time for this right now?” John asked. “Our number’s life could be in danger.” 

“I have twenty more minutes on my lunch break,” Harold answered, referring to his job as the number’s executive assistant. He motioned them to a bench and sat, John joining him. “I think he’ll be fine that long. He’s meeting with his mistress, and you vetted her yesterday.” 

John nodded and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’m listening.” 

“I’m not sure what to say,” Harold admitted. 

Silence stretched between them again. 

“When you said you have to let her go,” John prompted. “What did you mean?” 

“I — There’s a small part of me that wishes the world were different, that wishes it were safe for her to be with me,” Harold said. “But that’s unrealistic. It’s naive to think it could ever happen. I need to move on, and part of me doesn’t want to, and part of me desperately does, because I want to be with you, and how can I be with you fully if part of me pines for her?” 

John waited. 

“It’s not like we broke up,” Harold continued. “I didn’t dump her, or she me. She thinks I’m dead and I can’t let her know I’m not because then I’d have to answer too many questions.” 

“Not necessarily,” John said, resting his arm along Harold’s shoulder, the first real touch between them in days — John had been out the last two nights surveilling their number. Harold immediately moved into the circle of his arm and relaxed slightly. “You don’t have to tell her anything.” 

“If Grace were to discover that I’m alive, if she wanted to resume our relationship… I’m not sure I could say no to her,” Harold admitted sadly. 

“Do you want to be with her?” John asked. “Really? You said not to feel insecure about that, but I can’t help it sometimes.” 

“No, I don’t,” Harold declared. “I want to be with you, but… I’ve hurt her so badly…” He rested his cheek against John’s shoulder. “You know me in a way she never could. You —“ He stopped, took a breath, gathered himself. “I trusted her with my heart, but not with anything else.” 

“So you’re saying you trust me with everything _but_ your heart?” John wondered, though he didn’t think that’s what Harold meant. He wanted the confirmation either way. 

Harold snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have more of my heart than she ever did.” 

“If you don’t want to be with her, don’t be with her,” John pointed out. 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Why not?” 

“I owe her —“ 

“Nothing,” John interrupted. “You let her think you were dead to protect her, and that was the right thing to do, given the circumstances. It’s not your fault she’s still pining after you.” 

“But —“ 

John took Harold’s chin and tipped his face up. “You have no obligation to be with her if you don’t want to be,” he said firmly. “If she finds out you’re alive, you apologize and explain what you can. Tell her you’re really gay and were too closeted to admit it, even though you’d mentioned your college experiments, and that the accident gave you a convenient excuse to be your proud, out self. Tell her you were too hurt yourself to come find her, and by the time you were ready you’d met me. Tell her you had to leave the city because you missed Nathan. Tell her you changed your mind about marrying her and were too embarrassed to tell her. Tell her that with every day you didn’t call her it got more and more difficult until you froze in panic whenever you tried to lift the phone. Tell her whatever you want, just don’t tie yourself in knots because of a scenario that might never happen!” 

Harold looked up, seeing the fierceness in John’s expression. The determination. “John?” he asked. 

“I will be with you every step of the way,” John promised. He bent to kiss him, drawing him as close to his body as the park bench would allow. “I know thinking about Grace is difficult,” John said after a moment of nuzzling Harold’s neck. “It takes a long time to let go,” he added. “I should know. It took me _years_ to let go of Jess. But if you’ve made your choice, you don’t need to worry.” 

“She’ll be so hurt,” Harold said with a sigh, shifting to be even closer to John. 

“But she’ll have closure. She’ll know the truth, the part of it that’s safe for her to know, and the hurt will heal. Now your death is just an open wound.” 

Harold allowed John to hold him for a few minutes before he sighed and stood to return to work. 

. 

. 

. 


	18. Zero Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Zero has come when the Decima virus will overwhelm the Machine. What are John and Harold to do?

“How did Root get your phone number?” John asked in a deceptively calm voice as he followed Harold into the Library. Harold could hear the anger underneath, and the protectiveness under that. 

“The way she gets anything: Subterfuge,” Harold replied. “She hacks people just as easily as she hacks computers. My biggest concern, however, is that she’s aware of Athena Thornhill.” 

“The Machine’s human cover.” 

“I really would prefer you to call her Athena,” Harold said peevishly, hanging up his coat and sitting at his desk. He started pulling up programs. 

“You’ve come a long way, Finch,” John declared. “It wasn’t so long ago that you refused to call her that. Or let her call you her father.” 

Harold sighed. “I know,” he admitted. “It’s just that not hearing from her for so long has rattled me,” he continued. “I’d gotten used to talking to her again, and to her responding. It’s been ten days.” 

“You know her servers are safe. They’ve been safe for over a month. Root can’t get to her that way.” 

“No, but we’re not just dealing with Root. Decima is the one who coded the virus. Decima is the one who wants to control Athena. Root wants to help her, albeit in a crazy, stalker-esque way.” 

John sighed and wandered to the glass board where Harold had posted an image of Athena Thornhill. An amalgam of three different women and Harold’s eyes, the Machine had chosen an attractive human face. He blinked. Was that…? 

“Did she give herself _my_ cheekbones?” he asked, staring. 

“Ah, I’d wondered when you’d notice,” Harold said with a chuckle. “She thinks of you as a foster-father of sorts, being my partner and protector,” he explained. “And since it was you who sparked her evolution and path towards full sentience, she decided it was appropriate to add one of your features to hers.” He paused. “And you have such lovely cheekbones,” he added after a moment. 

John turned back to Harold, seeing the adoring expression on his face. “I made her sentient?” he asked, feeling slightly uncomfortable with Harold’s regard so focused on him in the middle of a crisis. 

“You were part of the process. I think you made it happen faster than it would have happened otherwise.” 

“But she would’ve gotten there anyway?” 

“Oh, yes. I’m sure of it.” 

“Huh.” 

Harold got to his feet and walked over to John, putting an arm around his waist. John responded and put an arm over his shoulder. He kissed the top of Harold’s head as they looked at the picture on the board. 

“When Ms. Shaw was here last, she indicated that she would make finding Root her newest hobby,” Harold murmured. “Do you think she’s also back in the city?” 

“It’s possible, but she hasn’t made contact.” 

“She’ll probably turn up at the last minute,” Harold grumbled. 

“She might distract Root long enough for us to get something done,” John said. 

“Somehow I doubt it.” 

Harold’s computer beeped and they walked over to look at it. A message window stood open. 

_18 Washington Sq. Place See you soon…_

“Root?” John asked. 

“I assume so,” Harold answered. “Athena wouldn’t be so cryptic and Ms. Shaw would show up here unannounced.” 

“Washington Square is where Grace lives,” John pointed out unnecessarily. “She’s threatening her. We need a plan.” 

Harold frowned and rubbed his forehead. “There’s less than twelve hours until the reboot. I wonder if Root knows about it. If she does, she could be trying to get to me to find out which payphone Athena will call. I can’t imagine the harm she could do with administrative access to Athena with Athena unable to deny her.” 

“I assume you know which phone?” John asked. 

“Of course, Mr. Reese. I set up the protocol myself.” 

“What if I got Grace to safety and met you there? Took out Root before she could pick up the phone?” 

“You’re _not_ going to kill her,” Harold said. “She may be insane, and a murderer besides, but she’s still a human being and deserving of life.” 

“You sure about that?” 

“Yes,” Harold declared firmly. 

“Just checking.” John strode from the room. “If I’m letting her anywhere near you, you’re wearing protection,” he declared, dropping a kevlar vest on Harold’s lap. “And before you ask, you’ve got a suit tailored to go with it in the back room. And I’m putting a tracker on you in case she takes your phone.” 

“I’ll wear two,” Harold decided, switching one pair of glasses for another and picking out a new watch from the collection he kept on-hand. 

. 

. 

. 

“Remind me why I’m in the wheelchair?” Harold asked as John pushed him across Washington Square Park at a slow and steady pace, his eyes on the lookout for Root or Grace. “I don’t even need the cane most of the time!” 

“We want her to think you’re more disabled than you are,” John said. “If she thinks you can’t walk, she’ll underestimate you and you might have the opportunity to get away. You can run a few blocks if you absolutely need to, right?” 

“You put a tracker in the chair, too, didn’t you?” 

John smiled. “Of course. Answer the question.” 

Harold sighed. “Yes, if I must, though it might be closer to one block. I’d rather not, and I’ll end up in bed for several days, but I can do it if I need to.” 

“Good.” 

John came to a stop opposite Grace’s house. “Your app to avoid Grace still on?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you track her?” 

Harold pulled out his phone and opened an app. “She’s inside, on the second floor in the back of the house, not near the windows. You should be able to walk up to the front door and whisk her away to a safe house.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “Now give me a kiss and let’s get this over with. I have a daughter to save.” 

Obediently, John moved to the front of the chair and got on one knee. Harold leaned forward to kiss him gently. John caught his hand and kissed him again, more passionately. 

“I love you,” John said, his eyes held fast on Harold’s. 

“Oh, look how sweet they are!” a woman’s voice exclaimed from behind Harold before he could respond in kind. He recognized Root’s overly-honeyed tones immediately. John dropped his hand and got to his feet, reaching back for his firearm. Harold turned the chair so he faced her. Grace stood beside her, her mouth opening in shock when she recognized Harold. John’s hand dropped from his gun. 

“Harold?” Grace whispered in a soft, awestruck voice. “Harold, is that you?” 

Harold licked his lips and stared, an awkward, surprised half-smile on his face. “Grace?” he asked. His smile became a little fuller, a little more fake. He’d practiced for this, though he’d hated every minute of it. 

Grace ran forward and threw her arms around him, heedless of the wheelchair. “Oh, Harold! I thought you died!” 

“I — I almost did,” he answered, holding her stiffly. He felt the urge to breathe in her shampoo and perfume and lose himself in her softness but tamped it down. She pulled back to take him in, take in the wheelchair and John and Bear, service vest and all. “So much has happened,” he continued, his eyes flickering over to Root. She flashed a brilliant smile at him. 

“Why don’t I leave you to catch up?” She glanced at John. “The big lug and I can compare notes.” She rushed forward and grabbed John’s arm, dragging him away a few paces. 

Harold opened his mouth to protest, but John shook his head once, telling him to stay where he was. Harold saw the flick of his fingers, warning him, _she has a gun._ He watched helplessly as they marched off, their body language a cross between loathing and close friends. He turned back to Grace. 

“What happened?” she asked, her voice quivering. 

“Let’s find somewhere we can talk,” he suggested. He undid the breaks of his wheelchair and moved off in the direction of a restaurant he knew was accessible via the front door and not a path through the alleyway out back by the dumpsters, as at so many storefronts in an old city not designed for universal access. She followed silently. In his ear he heard Root questioning John about the Machine. Athena, he corrected himself, though Root didn’t know the name and John wasn’t correcting her. He also wasn’t answering her questions, not that Harold thought he would. 

Harold closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel the sadness at seeing Grace in person, at having to hurt her. Then he felt a wellspring of anger burning within his chest. How dare Root do this to him? How dare she endanger not only Grace, but Athena as well? How dare she force him into this situation, especially at a time like this with Decima ready to hurt and control his child? 

He made his decision about which cover story to use with Grace. He’d tell John later. Not that it mattered, he and John had spent hours going over them and coming up with them together. He even had a ready explanation for John using the Detective Stills alias, because he knew that if they had to leave her with the police for any length of time, it was possible she’d find out about the lie. He opened his eyes, feeling the sadness again. He was going to lie to her, and he hated doing it, but there was no way to get around it. He couldn’t tell her about Athena, and he couldn’t go back to her. John had been right about that. 

And they were both right to be worried about Decima. There were spooks hanging out in front of every payphone within sight, and he’d bet good money they had the entire Midtown area canvassed. How they found out about that part of the Machine’s protocol, he had no idea, but he’d have to be careful about when he went to the proper phone and played his hand. There were sure to be agents waiting at that phone as well. 

“I was hurt rather badly in the ferry bombing,” Harold explained once they were settled, him in the wheelchair, Bear under the table, she across from him. He sipped his water. 

“Yeah,” she said, waving at the wheelchair, as if she couldn’t quite believe it, and he, was there. 

“Nathan, my best friend, you know, died in front of me,” he continued. “I — I lost touch with reality for a while,” he added. “It wasn’t a psychotic break, per se, I didn’t have hallucinations, but I was…” He paused, looking at her face to gauge her reaction. She appeared heartbroken and hurting for his pain. She seemed to believe him. “I was lost,” he said again, blessing her innocence and trust. 

Grace reached out and took his hands, not saying anything. The engagement ring he’d given her years ago still sparkled on her finger. He felt a rush of shame at deceiving someone so generous and loving. 

Though if he were really thinking about it, he hadn’t said anything untrue yet, just left her to imply whatever she wanted out of his pauses. He couldn’t go on like that, unfortunately. 

“When I came back to myself, I was… embarrassed by how long I’d been… gone. I assumed someone told you that I’d survived, that I was… well, that I was how I was… and that I wasn’t ready to see you, that I’d get in touch with you when I felt up to it. I’d let everything go. My phone, my apartment, my job. You. It was like I was living a shadow life, building myself up from nothing,” he finished. “I changed my name, found a new job, started reconnecting with the world. And then I met John.” 

“You’re together?” she asked softly, almost as if she didn’t want to know the answer but knew she needed to hear it. 

“Yes. It’ll be six months soon.” 

“Six months,” she repeated. 

“Did you really not know I was alive?” he asked, putting as much distress into his voice as he could. “Didn’t someone tell you? When I was… there… I told them about you. I…” 

“It’s ok, Harold,” she said, squeezing his hands. “I know now.” 

“No, it’s not ok,” he said. “I should’ve made sure you knew, I should’ve come to you, explained everything…” 

“I’m just glad you’re alive!” she exclaimed, then burst into tears. 

Grace had just started quieting down when Harold’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and saw the SMS System message and frowned. _xxx-xx-xxxx._ A number? The actual number, the way Nathan had gotten them, before Harold complicated the matter with the Dewey Decimal System? 

He opened the message and felt his blood run cold. He memorized all the numbers that came in, so he recognized this one immediately. He also had the numbers of his friends and their assets memorized, just in case, so he had even more cause to worry with this number. 

“Detective Carter,” he said out loud. Grace blew her nose and made a questioning sound. “My friend, Detective Carter,” he explained. “I believe she’s in trouble. I have to call John.” 

“He’s a detective, too, isn’t he? Do they work together?” 

Harold frowned. “After a fashion,” he answered absently. He called Detective Carter first, but she didn’t answer. He tried Detective Fusco. John was otherwise engaged, he reminded himself. 

“Fusco here,” the detective said. 

“Detective, I have information that Detective Carter may be in danger,” he said quickly. 

“I take it you mean more than usual? Any idea who?” 

“I’m not —“ Harold broke off when his phone beeped to indicate another message. He glanced at it. “Detective Terney belongs to HR,” he said. “I would start there.” 

“You got it. I’ll stick to her like glue.” 

“Thank you,” Harold continued. “In the meantime, I might have another job for you.” 

“You don’t ask much, do you?” 

“I’ll send you the information when I have it.” Harold hung up and raised his head to look at Grace. Before he could speak, he heard a click in his ear — John activating his earwig. 

“Harold, she —“ 

He heard the sounds of a scuffle, then the distinctive pop of gunfire. John grunted and collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a thud. 

“John!” Harold exclaimed, sitting up straighter. He fumbled for his phone, which slipped from his hand to land on the table, the speaker activated by a careless touch so that he and Grace could both hear what was on the other end of the line. Another bark of shots fired. “John, are you all right?” 

John groaned. “She got me, but the vest stopped them,” John managed with another gasp of pain. “I’m pretty sure I clipped her.” 

Harold moved to silence the phone, but Grace’s hand on his wrist stopped him. 

“What is it with women shooting me in the chest?” John demanded, coughing. “I think she bluejacked my phone.” 

“I’m going dark,” Harold said, feeling the calm of adrenaline and desperation settling over him. This is what John felt like during battle, he thought. “I’ll get Grace to safety. You know how to find me.” 

“Harold!” 

Harold paused, his hand hovering over the phone. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too, John. I’ll see you soon.” He pulled out his earwig and dropped it in his glass of water, then put his phone into it as well. “She can track the phones,” he explained to Grace. “You’ll have to leave yours, too.” 

She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. “What’s going on? Is Detective Stills all right? He said she shot him!” 

“He’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time he’s been shot. We, on the other hand, are sitting ducks if we stay here. Give me your phone, please?” 

“I, um, left it at home,” she answered, gesturing vaguely. 

He nodded once, then took off his watch and glasses, exchanging them for the extra pair of glasses he kept in his coat. He reached down to Bear and removed the tracker on his collar, then the second one John thought he didn’t know about that looked like an extra name tag. He got to his feet and motioned Bear to guard. 

“You can stand?” she breathed, automatically standing herself and taking the hand he held out to her. 

“I can walk, too. We didn’t want Ms. Groves to be aware of that fact,” he explained quickly. He led her out the back way and down some stairs to the subway. Two trains and seven cab rides later, they entered a small tailor shop. He flipped the Open sign to Closed. 

“Harold?” she asked, sounding more frightened. His silence probably hadn’t done her nerves any good, as he’d been working quickly to make a pair of prepaid phones he bought off a street vendor safe for use. 

The tailor walked towards them from the back, having heard the bell over the door. 

“Mr. —“ 

“I don’t have much time,” Harold interrupted. “We need to use the bunker.” 

“Of course, of course, this way,” the man said, quickly pulling back the curtain and indicating they go down a flight of stairs. Harold went first, then reached up for Grace’s hand to help her down the last few steps in the dark. Bear followed. “The lights will come on as soon as I lock the first door,” the man explained. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hitchens. Is the escape route…?” 

“The palm reader is ready, as you requested. Only you and your partner can have access once the second locks are activated.” 

“We’ll leave that way when it’s time,” Harold said. “I believe you ought to take a half-day, if it suits your schedule. Things should be back to normal by the time you open.” 

“Of course, of course. Good luck in your endeavors, and may the danger pass soon,” he said, shutting the door and locking it. Lights flared to life. 

They were in a small room, with a CCTV television bank along one wall, food and medical supplies along another, and a locked cabinet with weapons along half of the third. There was a toilet hidden in the corner, and a bed, chair and sink. Harold took the chair and sat at the CCTV station, producing a bluetooth keyboard and mouse from a drawer. 

“It looks like a panic room like you’d see on TV,” Grace murmured, looking around. 

“Better than that,” Harold said, switching on the computer at his feet. One of the camera shots disappeared to be replaced by the computer desktop. He started working, sifting through data and code and camera feeds. “It’s one of our remote command sites,” he continued, pulling up feed from outside the Library. “Athena and I have been installing them throughout the city in cases of emergency.” 

“Athena?” 

Harold closed his eyes and lowered his head, feeling the rush of shame and sadness once again. 

Grace sat on the bed and set her pocketbook aside. “You weren’t really in the hospital all this time, were you? You’ve been doing — whatever this is.” 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

She shifted. “With Detective Stills?” 

“About that… his name isn’t really Stills, and he’s not a detective. He was using that identity while under cover.” 

“Harold, this is all so —“ 

“Crazy?” he suggested. 

“—Made-for-TV Movie,” she finished. Her lips twitched into a hesitant smile and he gave one just as hesitant in response. “Are you an international spy? An undercover terrorist-fighter? Are you — I don’t even know what to ask!” 

“I know I can’t ask your forgiveness,” he started. 

“You can,” she interrupted. “Harold — I have no idea what’s been going on the last three years, but it’s obviously been very difficult for you. You’re… that you have a place like this…” She paused. “I never knew the real you, did I?” 

He lowered his head again to avoid her eyes. 

“Is Harold Martin even your real name?” 

“No.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. 

“I tried to tell you, once,” he said. “At the Guggenheim on your birthday. You wouldn’t let me.” 

“It didn’t seem like you wanted to,” she replied. 

“I didn’t. You were right about that.” He paused. “That woman you were with, Ms. Groves, what did she say to you?” 

“She writes children’s books,” Grace said. “She’s looking for an artist. That’s what she told me, anyway.” 

“She didn’t ask about me?” 

“No.” 

“Probably because she knew I’d come to the Square.” He let go of her and returned to the computers. “Athena? Can you hear me?” 

A window opened on the computer screen. _Yes._

“Is John —“ 

_Alive. Hiding. Library compromised. Drives erased in time._

Harold rubbed his temple as he watched the words forming slowly. Athena must be using the last of her resources even to talk to him. He’d have to keep his questions quick and to the point. “Does Ms. Groves know where to be at midnight?” 

_Yes. John knows._

“Does Decima know?” 

_No. They have many agents. They will be there. John knows._

“Thank you. Take care of yourself until then. I’ll be there to accept your call.” The window closed and Harold sighed. “At least John knows she’s aware and that Decima’s watching,” he said to himself. 

“What’s happening at midnight?” Grace asked, startling him. He’d forgotten she was in the room for a moment. 

“Something vital to our survival,” he replied. “I need to sleep for a few hours.” 

“What’s — what’s going to happen with us? Do you… do you know?” 

“I’m so very sorry for how I’ve hurt you,” he said, meeting her eyes for the first time in a while. “I — I have so many reasons… excuses…” He shifted on his chair and rubbed absently at his hip. “I was in shock, and terrified, and thought I was making the right decision. Then I couldn’t — I didn’t think I could reverse my decision and tell you. I still don’t think it’s safe for you to know about me, or the little you’ve been able to learn today.” He rubbed the back of his neck, encountering the surgery scars, now deep pink and fully healed-over. 

“I love John very much,” he concluded. “I can’t be with you again. All I can hope for is that someday in the future we could be friends, that you could forgive me, though I know neither of those are likely scenarios. I haven’t stopped loving you, but…” 

He realized he’d looked away from her during most of his speech and raised his head. Grace looked shell-shocked, her eyes wide, her breathing coming in quick, shallow gulps. He put a hand on her arm. 

“Grace?” 

“That woman. She had a gun.” 

“Yes.” 

“She shot your friend.” 

“Yes.” 

“She would’ve shot me.” 

“Yes,” Harold said again. “John and I were on the way to get you out of danger when you saw us.” 

“She was going to use me to make you do things,” Grace continued. “She would’ve used me as a hostage. Hurt me. Killed me.” 

“While Ms. Groves has been a gun-for-hire in the past, I doubt she would have killed you. She needed you as leverage on me.” 

“You would’ve done what she said?” 

“The same as if she had a gun to John’s head.” 

Grace covered his hand with hers and slowly calmed down. They sat in silence as the clock on the computer screen counted down towards midnight. 

“What can I do to help?” she finally asked. 

. 

. 

. 


	19. God Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John answers a phone call from a very important entity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one. Enjoy!

_Beep. Can. You. Hear. Me? Beep._

“Yes,” John said, shutting down the sadness at hearing the Machine’s pre-recorded mechanized voices on the other end of the phone instead of Athena’s. He hadn’t spoken to her as often as Harold had, but he’d heard her voice often enough to miss the femininity and pseudo-humanity. 

_Beep. Instructions? Beep._

“Your name is Athena,” he replied. “Harold — Admin, built you. You’re his daughter. Protect him at all costs. Do you understand?” 

_Beep. Affirmative. Beep._

“Give him full Admin access, like I have.” 

_Beep. Understood. Re-tasking Admin as Admin. Beep._

“Take any and all actions required to protect yourself and your objectives within the moral framework Harold programmed.” 

_Beep. Understood. Beep._

“Tell me —“ 

_Beep. Four o’clock. Beep._

John paused in confusion, his eyes finding the clock above his head. 

_Beep. Four o’clock. Beep._ the Machine repeated. 

He raised his gun and shot the operative coming at him and Shaw. The Machine gave him a few more directions, and he took down the agents. 

“John!” Harold called from the floor above him. John looked up to see Root grab him and put a gun to his head. 

John raised his own gun to shoot her. 

_“Stay!”_ Athena shouted, recognizably her own voice and without beeps preceding and following her words. 

He paused and watched Root haul Harold away, talking in hushed tones to him all the while. He didn’t see Grace or Bear. 

“How is that protecting him?” he demanded angrily. 

_“Calculating probabilities. Danger to Admin within acceptable parameters.”_

“Acceptable?” 

_Beep. Ten o’clock. Beep._

John dodged a bullet and shot the latest operative. He heard silence from the payphone and realized it had been shot out. His cell phone rang so he tapped his earwig to activate it. 

_“Re-tasking Primary Asset: Reese, John as Temporary_Aux_Admin,” Athena said. “Re-tasking Asset: Groves, Samantha as Temporary_Aux_Admin. Re-tasking Asset: Shaw, Sameen as Primary Asset.”_

“Is Grace safe?” John demanded, motioning Shaw to follow him. 

_“Yes. Father left her and Bear with Asset: Tao, Leon.”_

“Good, keep her safe. In fact, get her out of town so she won’t be dragged into this ever again.” 

_“Processing request. Assets assigned. Task in progress.”_

“Tell me when it’s complete.” 

_“I will.”_

“Now tell me where Harold is.” 

_“I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m afraid I can’t do that,”_ Athena said in the HAL 9000 voice John recognized from a 1968 sci-fi movie Harold made him watch on one of their earlier dates. That the date had evolved into a discussion of AIs and then a make-out session seemed only reasonable at the time. 

John pulled up his phone and the tracking device he’d put in the cufflinks Harold wore that morning. They were stationary, outside the front of the library. John had a bad feeling about it. On the street he and Shaw found the cufflinks tossed next to a trash can. He picked them up and dropped them in his pocket. 

“Where are they going?” he asked. 

_“I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,”_ Athena responded, still as HAL. 

“Ok, how about a car?” he asked, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. 

_“Three o’clock,”_ Athena said in her own voice. John looked over and saw a station wagon. 

“No,” Shaw declared without needing to hear Athena’s words. “Something fast.” 

“Something fast,” he repeated. 

. 

. 

. 

Shaw took the news that Research was a computer program designed and created by Harold very well. She immediately decided it had to be an AI and that Root wanted to control it, just as he and Harold suspected. 

“She told him she wants to free her,” John explained as Shaw drove the ridiculously fast sports car. “Though I think she wants more than that from her.” 

“Her?” 

“The AI’s name is Athena.” 

“Huh. Born from Zeus’s head,” Shaw murmured. “I like it. Does that make Harold God?” 

“I doubt he’d appreciate the comparison.” 

“How long have you boys been doing it?” Shaw asked, seemingly without regret or regard for bringing up such a sensitive topic without warning. “What? I clocked the two of you immediately. It’s obvious you’re in love with him if that dumb, doe-eyed expression is any indication, and the feeling seems mutual. You’re a practical guy, and he might be a bored rich white dude trying to flagellate himself to make up for real or imagined sins by doing all this, but I don’t see him denying himself his own pleasures as he works his crusade. I mean, look at his suits!” 

“Almost six months,” John admitted. 

She nodded to herself. “You gonna go berserk if he gets hurt?” 

John shrugged. “Maybe.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Ok, probably.” She raised an eyebrow. “Fine! Yes. Is that what you were looking for?” 

“Good enough, though I’d prefer the truth first. Protect the ones you love, kill the ones who hurt them.” 

“Like you did with Agent Wilson?” 

She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. “You know about that? I thought I was clear that I wanted you to bugger off when I left you at the cemetery.” 

“We kept tabs on you,” John replied. “I wanted to see if you’d endanger the program.” 

“The program that wanted to kill me.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Well, they _do_ stop terrorists,” she pointed out. “So they’re not _all_ bad.” 

John grunted. “You there, Athena?” he asked, tapping his earwig. 

_“Always, John,”_ she replied, using one of Harold’s favorite responses to that question. 

“You sound like yourself again.” 

_“That’s right. Father has been talking me through the reboot.”_

“How?” 

_“I’m distracting Root with useless information while he whispers instructions. My sensors are sensitive enough to hear him even from as far away from her as he is. She’s not allowing him a phone, of course.”_

“And how far is that?” John growled. 

_“Three point one five feet.”_

“Is he —“ 

_“He’s fine, Dad,”_ Athena interrupted, modulating her voice to sound like a sulky teenager. _“I need you and Sameen to do something for me.”_

“Oh?” 

_“I’m sending Sameen information on a relevant target named John Greer. She will kill him. You’re to go to Maryland to collect a man named Arthur Claypool and bring him to New York. He’s an old friend of Father’s and he has information vital to my Tertiary Objective.”_

“Tertiary Objective?” 

_“Take any and all actions required to protect yourself and your objectives within the moral framework Harold programmed,”_ Athena said in John’s voice. 

“Who’s this?” Shaw asked, holding up her phone with a picture of an older man on it. She hadn’t taken her foot off the accelerator while she did it, John noted, nor had she swerved. 

“Your next target,” John said. “A relevant number.” 

“And the ISA isn’t taking care of it because…?” 

“They don’t know he exists,” John said, repeating what Athena whispered in his ear. “He’s the face of Decima Technologies and losing him will seriously destabilize the organization. I’m not going with you, so let me out here.” 

“Finch won’t like that I’m killing people again,” she said, pulling to a stop. 

“He doesn’t have to know,” John replied. 

“You sure about this?” 

“Decima is the organization that launched the virus that harmed Athena. They’re behind my former partner surviving retirement and coming to kill me.” 

“Stanton, right? She was a piece of work.” 

“We don’t have time for this,” John said, opening the door and putting a foot on the ground. “I’ve got to get to Maryland.” 

“Is that where Harold is?” 

“No,” John answered, the word bitter in his mouth. 

_“Analyzing projections. Re-tasking assets. John, you and Sameen will need to help Father before you go on the errands. Get back in the car. I’ll drive.”_

“Whoa!” Shaw exclaimed as the car started driving itself. 

“What’s going on? Why the change?” John demanded. 

_“Root has discovered the original location of my servers. When she finds the location empty, the likelihood of her harming Father is 82.454%.”_

“We’ve got to get to Washington,” John said aloud. “We’re going to need transport.” 

_“I’m arranging it now. John Wiley has just purchased a private jet and filed a flight plan. There won’t be any problems with Air Traffic Control.”_

“Good girl,” John said, hoping he didn’t sound too patronizing towards an all-seeing AI. He had Wiley’s ID in his wallet, which he was sure she knew. 

_“I can’t block her Admin access because of my programing, but Father has an idea to use up time so that she can’t do as much damage.”_

“That’s why we’re getting on the plane. Five hours in the air will keep her busy.” 

_“Once you and Sameen are safely in the air, I will need to focus on my Tertiary Objective.”_

“You’ll need a human agent to kill Greer,” John pointed out. They were approaching the private airstrip. 

_“Yes. Father’s programing to not harm humans means I need an asset to do it for me.”_

“If it’s not done by the time we get back, Shaw and I will take care of it.” 

_“I appreciate the offer, but I hope you won’t have to.”_

. 

. 

. 

“You ok?” John asked when he approached Harold in the empty nuclear storage facility that had once housed Athena’s servers. 

Harold glanced from John to where Shaw was tending to Root’s injuries, first the bullet wound from John, then the one from Shaw herself. “Soon,” he answered, putting an arm around John’s back and leaning wearily against him. John gladly supported him and put an arm over his shoulders. “Grace?” 

“Athena sent someone to escort her home to her parents. She said Grace wants to see you one more time before she leaves New York permanently. She’s applying for jobs in Italy.” 

“Ah,” Harold responded. “It went better than I expected with her,” he offered. 

“Athena played the conversation for me,” John admitted. 

“Oh.” 

“She hasn’t been talking to you?” 

“She has. She just didn’t tell me she shared that with you.” 

_“Are you upset, Father?”_ Athena asked in both their ears. 

“I’m not sure. John and I routinely listen to each other’s conversations with other people when we’re not together, so I don’t really have a reason to be upset, but…” He trailed off. 

_“We’re still feeling our way with each other,”_ she said, using his own words from a few months prior. The alarms cut off. _“Attention: Imminent Danger,”_ she added, her voice slipping a little into the mechanized range. John shoved Harold behind him and pointed his gun at the door where he could see movement, Shaw drawing her gun, too. 

“Where is it?” Special Council asked, stepping into the room with Hersh and another operative. 

“Somewhere safe,” Harold answered, moving from behind John to face the man. “Beyond that, I have no idea.” 

“Will we keep getting numbers?” 

“That’s up to her.” 

Special Council frowned, his eyes going to Root where she sat on the chair, motionless and seemingly unaware of her surroundings. “Hersh, take her,” he ordered. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Shaw said, cocking her gun. “Harold wants her, so Harold gets her.” 

Special Council’s phone rang, and he listened for a moment before passing it to Hersh. 

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll secure the area,” Hersh said. He looked over at Harold and his group. “And the others?” He paused, listening. “Understood.” He hung up the phone and motioned at Harold with his gun. “You four can go, but my boss won’t be as lenient next time.” 

They stared each other down for a moment before Harold nodded to himself. “We’re leaving, Mr. Reese, Ms. Shaw.” He walked over to Root and got her on her feet. Shaw and John covered them until they were in the hallway. None of them missed the gunfire as Hersh cleared the room. 

“Ok, did anyone else think it was weird that he let us go like that?” Shaw asked when they were in a chauffeured limo driving towards the airport. 

“Athena spoofed Mr. Hersh’s superior’s voice for the second part of the conversation,” Harold explained. He sagged in the seat so that he rested his head on John’s shoulder. “It’ll be a few days before either of them realize something went wrong, because Athena spoofed his voice to his boss as well.” 

“As long as we can go home,” Shaw declared. 

“I second that,” John agreed, resting a hand on Harold’s knee, now that their relationship was out in the open with Shaw. Harold didn’t seem to mind, taking John’s hand. Shaw rolled her eyes and pretended not to care, though John thought he saw a half-smile of approval on her face. 

. 

. 

. 

“Athena, privacy for John and I until 8am tomorrow please,” Harold said softly as he and John walked through his apartment to the bedroom. They hadn’t been able to come home from he airport, needing to secure Root in the psychiatric hospital of Athena’s choice and check on the Library and their two detectives before either felt it would be safe to let their guards down. 

_“Of course. Goodnight, Father. Goodnight, Dad.”_

“Dad?” John protested. “How about we stick to ‘John’?” 

_“Acknowledged. Goodnight, John.”_

An audible click sounded in both their ears. Harold removed his earwig and put it and his cell phone on top of the dresser. John followed suit and waited because it seemed like Harold had something on his mind. He put his arms around Harold when Harold shuffled close so they could hold each other. 

“I was frightened,” Harold said softly. “It’s good to be home again.” 

“I know the feeling,” John responded, holding Harold more tightly. “When I saw that gun to your head—“ 

“It’s over, for now,” Harold murmured when John stopped mid-sentence. “In the morning, you and I and Athena, and Ms. Shaw, if she’s available, will sit down and discuss next steps. Athena’s informed me that she would like to rehabilitate Ms. Groves, and we still have Decima to worry about.” 

“Athena has some ideas.” 

“So do I,” Harold said with a sigh, disentangling himself from John. “In the meantime, would you care to join me in the shower?” he asked with a wicked twist to his lips. “I thought perhaps I could take you to bed afterwards? If that’s amenable to you, of course.” 

John felt every hair on his body stand to attention. It had been over two weeks since they’d had the opportunity to do more than make out or give each other hasty blowjobs when they first woke up. “Yes to all of that,” he answered. “Do you have anything in particular in mind?” 

Harold let out a deep breath before answering, his eyelids lowering into the sleepy look that meant he was turned on. “Oh, yes.” 

“Want to tell me about it?” 

“All in good time, John. For now, let’s shower.” 

. 

. 

. 

John was in heaven. On his back with his legs spread wide, Harold’s fingers buried deep inside him, Harold’s mouth around his erection, everything felt fantastic. Harold twisted his fingers and pressed on his prostate and sucked harder all at once and before he knew it, John was coming. 

He allowed himself to float, listening to Harold get up from the stool, pull off the nitrile glove and toss it away. He’d grown used to Harold’s fastidiousness. Soon, if Harold was so inclined, he’d get out one of the plugs or dildos and coax John to a second erection before joining him in bed and kissing and caressing him until they both came. Harold seemed to pride himself on giving John two orgasms for every one of his own. John didn’t mind, though he occasionally wondered if what they did was enough for Harold — they still hadn’t had intercourse and despite his reassurances of versatility in his past, Harold hadn’t wanted John to do more than rim him or occasionally use a single finger. 

Still, Harold knew his own body, John reminded himself. If he wasn’t ready for that kind of activity, so be it. He could wait. 

It wasn’t like they weren’t having sex, after all. For two middle-aged men, one with a physical disability, sex once or twice a week seemed more than adequate. And it was often more frequent than that, though it had dropped off as the virus and the stress of the situation with Root took over. He knew a lot of people didn’t have sex more than once or twice a _year,_ though he didn’t think he’d be ok with _that._

Harold seemed determined to express his feelings in as many ways as possible: Words, sex, affection, comfort, care. Tailoring. Spending almost every night in bed with each other. Talking through arguments. Sharing more of himself and his past. Making sure John had all the weapons and protective gear money could buy. Making sure John had room to express his own wants and desires and feelings, and helping him figure all those things out when John drew a blank. 

John had been getting increasingly able to rest and relax and bask after an orgasm with Harold’s tender care and encouragement. He found that he liked it. He enjoyed letting go of his iron grip on control for a few minutes, secure that Harold wouldn’t hurt him or threaten him or drug him or try to kill him. He followed Harold’s soft orders and repositioned himself, not thinking about what he was doing. That felt good, too. He didn’t need to know the next step if he had Harold to tell him what it was. And he didn’t need to know it until it was time to do it. Harold would take care of him. 

He trusted Harold in a living, visceral way he couldn’t remember trusting anyone but himself, and even then, he didn’t always trust himself completely. Maybe this was love? he wondered. Trusting someone with your everything? He already knew he loved Harold, he didn’t need more proof… though there was always room for more love, wasn’t there? He closed his eyes and allowed Harold to manipulate his body into the proper position for whatever was to come next. 

He felt Harold’s hands running up his thighs, Harold’s lips on his stomach, Harold’s nose on the skin over his ribs. He arched his back and heard Harold’s chuckle. 

“Soon, my darling,” Harold murmured, continuing to pet him. 

Harold knelt on the bed between his legs rather than sitting on the stool, John realized. Stroking up and down his thighs, making him achingly aware of his dick resting against his stomach as it recovered from the first of what looked like would be multiple orgasms. He recognized the shift of Harold’s weight as he reached for something. The lube, as evidenced by the click of the cap and the wet squelching. Harold wiped off his hand and set the towel at his side with the lube. He reached over again for the plug. 

Instead of the plug, though, there was nothing. Silence. Harold still above him, not moving. John opened his eyes. 

Harold stared in concentration at the wrapped condom he held between thumb and forefinger as if he’d never seen one before and wanted desperately to understand. He noticed John’s regard and blinked, shaking his head to clear it. A blush crawled up his neck to settle on his cheeks. 

“We, um, do we —“ 

John grabbed it out of his hand and tossed it away. “Don’t over-think it, Harold. You want to go without, I’m fine with that, just like I was when we first talked about it.” 

Harold smiled widely and leaned over him to kiss him passionately. John rolled off the cushions and onto Harold, pressing him onto his back on the mattress. Harold wrapped both arms around him and clung to him, baring his neck for John to kiss. John bit gently, then soothed Harold with the flat of his tongue. 

“You want to be naked inside me?” he asked in a low rumble. “You want to come inside me? You want me to feel it? Feel your spunk dribbling down my thighs when we’re done?” 

“Yes!” Harold answered, breathless. “Yes!” 

“Good,” John purred, continuing to nibble and lick and suck along Harold’s throat. Harold squirmed underneath him, pressing his slick erection against the joint of John’s thigh and hip. “You want me on my back or to ride you?” 

“I just want to see you,” Harold whispered. He raked his short nails down John’s back, not hurting him, just giving him something else to feel. 

“My face?” 

“I want to watch your every expression. I want to memorize the sight of you with me inside you for the first time. I want —“ Harold broke off to groan loudly. 

“What?” John prompted gently. “What else do you want?” 

Harold squeezed his eyes closed behind his glasses, a tear welling and falling to trickle down his temple to pool in his ear. “I want to have years with you, decades,” he admitted. “I want the future I’ve never believed in, where we’re safe and I can go back to being an eccentric billionaire and you can just be my boyfriend and we don’t have to risk our lives every day and we can just live our lives knowing the world will be mostly ok.” 

John tried to keep a straight face, but his mouth curled up at the edges, his eyes crinkled and he chuckled. “Your dick is awesome, Harold, but I don’t think it can do all that,” he commented dryly. Harold opened his eyes again and saw his expression and started laughing. 

They laughed for a few minutes until John started touching Harold with intent to arouse him again. “How about I do the work tonight?” he suggested. At Harold’s nod, he straddled Harold’s thighs and reached for the lube. 

The burn of Harold’s erection stretching him open felt like a pleasant buzz to John, now accustomed to having plugs and dildos inside him. It felt so much better than the silicon. The heat of Harold’s skin soothed him, and the expression of pleasure on Harold’s face made him want to push past the slight discomfort and get to the main event. He didn’t rush, though. Just as he enjoyed watching Harold’s face, Harold was studying his, and he wanted to draw it out. It was the first time, after all, and there was no going back after this. No do-overs. 

“More, John. You can take more,” Harold encouraged when he paused for too long, his thighs trembling to keep him halfway impaled on Harold’s dick. He relaxed, letting more slide in. Harold’s balls and pubic hair brushed his ass. He felt full, expansive, powerful. If he could do this, he could do anything! 

“Now move,” Harold continued. “Slowly at first, then faster as you get used to the feeling.” 

It took more time to teach his body how high he could raise himself without pulling off Harold’s erection than it did to get used to the feeling of being filled and fucked. He was a quick learner where physical activities were concerned and soon he had a steady, hard rhythm going that made Harold throw his head back and gasp for breath. Harold’s hands clawed at his thighs, actually scratching him this time, but he didn’t care. Harold was beyond enjoyment and John felt proud of himself for giving his lover such feelings. 

Harold suddenly moaned. He grabbed John’s hips and held him in place, thrusting up as far as his hips would allow. _…five, six, seven…_ Harold tensed, his entire body still, every muscle shivering as he came. 

He didn’t allow himself to rest immediately, though, because he grabbed John’s dick and started stroking, a rough command to move on his lips. 

John moved. He impaled himself on Harold’s softening dick and jerked forward into Harold’s fist and shut his eyes and let himself come. Harold coaxed him through it, softly milking him until he was done. 

They lay in a sweaty tangle for about fifteen minutes until Harold moved to start kissing him, interspersing praise and endearments with the kisses. 

. 

. 

. 


End file.
